Marsh Silas: Inquisitor
by AmbroseVox
Summary: Staff Sergeant 'Marsh Silas,' his inexperienced platoon leader, the men of Bloody Platoon, and the rest of their regiment have been requisitioned for duty by an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. Mystified, he will have to keep his Cadians alive while following Inquisitor Barlocke down a challenging path of thought, doubt, self-discovery, and darkness.
1. Part I: Chapter 1

Part 1: Chapter 1

* * *

"Come on now, men! Hup, two, haree, fo! Hildred Hive wasn't too spry!"

"_How he got in, I'll never know why!"_

"Hildred Hive was nevah in shape!"

"_All he could do was gawk and gape!"_

"Hildred Hive could nevah salute!"

"_Could never shoot!"_

"Could nevah tramp!"

"_Only to camp!"_

"When he prayed!"

"_He shook like a maid!"_

"And on-the-firing-line!"

"_He certainly lacked a spine!" _

"Oh Hildy, Hildy, could never survive!"

"_Even in the Hive!"_

A platoon of Guardsmen marched across the parade ground of a forward operating base. Clouds of white billowed from their mouths as they sang their cadence. Boots thudded in unison upon the pavement. Rucksacks rattled and shook in rhythm. Their weapons, with bayonets fixed, pointed skywards. The polished blades glinted as they caught the mid-morning glare. Shining on their olive-colored helms was the silver Aquila, the double-headed eagle, sigil of the Imperium of Man. Tactical hoods were drawn, covering their necks and the back of their heads. At the head of the column was a flag-bearer, carrying the colors of the entire 1333rd Cadian Regiment. On the pauldron of each man, just below the regimental number, was a red, horizontal bar.

The courtyard of the base was rather empty. A few Enginseers with accompanying Servitors busied themselves with Chimera maintenance. A couple of off-duty troopers loafed on the grass and watched the platoon pass. Guardsmen in the towers scanned the horizon with scopes, their partners ready on mounted Heavy Bolters. Automated turrets turned slowly, scanning for targets. Overlooking the grounds was the tower of the field command center. Flags flapped in the breeze. Walls of tactica control centers and infantry barracks were adorned with Aquilas and skulls.

Turning on their heels, the stern-faced men chanted again. Marching just to the side of them was a weathered, square-faced staff sergeant, leading his men in song. A short, vertical scar divided his left eyebrow in two. A short, adhesive bandage covered a notch on the bridge of his short, angular nose. Brown-blonde stubble coated his cheeks, and grew thicker in the goatee. Energized violet eyes surveyed the men to his left. After finishing the final verse, he placed the stem of an ebony pipe back to his lips, took a puff, then stopped.

"Halt!" he hollered. In machine-like fashion, the men stopped. "Right...face! Atten-shun!"

Everyone straightened out, including the sergeant. Standing before them was the Company Command Squad. Captain Murga stood beside Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram, a black-jacketed Inquisitor, Commissar Ghent, and several other individuals.

Captain Murga stepped forward. He wore a bionic eyepiece over his right eye socket and his face was far older than that of the sergeant standing opposite from him. A peaked cap adorned his hairless head. A scar on the right side of his mouth exposed some of his teeth. When he smiled, it was almost ghastly.

"Thank you, Marsh Silas."

The staff sergeant nodded as he puffed away on his pipe. One hand rested on the pommel of his standard Munitorum-pattern power sword. In his other hand, he clutched the strap of his M36 Kantrael lasgun, a weapon with an extended body encompassing the barrel, a stubby buttsock, a bulky muzzle, and a thin, elongated scope running along the top. The body and muzzle were olive drab in color, while the other components were black.

Clearing his throat, the captain surveyed the men. Marsh was looking past the grizzled CO. In his line of sight was their new lieutenant, Hyram. Unlike the many fresh-faced, young men that made up the junior officer corps, he was in his standard forties. Black haired and clean shaven, he possessed very fine features, devoid of scars or blemishes, in stark contrast to the veterans of Bloody Platoon. After countless battles and firefights, their faces were marked, weathered, and lined. Some men possessed bionic augmentations, making up for the lack of an eye or a missing limb. Others had visible metal plates on their jaws or cheekbones. Hyram looked so manicured, he was better suited for a parade through a Kasr rather than an operation. All his gear and his set of flak armor was entirely new. If the man was a common trooper, some opportunistic dregs would have attempted to trade him valuables for his good coat or excellent boots.

He wasn't even looking at the platoon. His apprehensive eyes gazed upon his boots, as if he were embarrassed.

Captain Murga pulled out a dataslate. "Boys, I'm sorry that your furlough was cut short, but this has come straight from the regiment. Inquisitor Barlocke has requested the support of the 1333rd to fulfill an investigation. While the entire regiment will be at his disposal, you will be under his direct command for the duration." Marsh Silas could hear a few men breathe in relief, relieved that the investigation wasn't involving them

The captain smiled. "Let's welcome the Inquisitor to Cadia, shall we?"

"Welcome, sir!" came the resounding reply.

Murga looked at the Inquisitor.

"Sir, would you like to brief the men?"

As the Captain stepped back, Inquisitor Barlocke came forward. He wore a black trench coat over silver armor. It was Inquisition-crafted, unknown to the likes of Marsh Silas. Still, with the mixture of simplistic armor, the long coat, and the olive colored garments underneath, the Inquisitor proved to be a foreboding sight. Around his neck was a black tactical scarf. Slung over each shoulder were weapons one wouldn't expect an Inquisitorial operative to carry. Rather than finely crafted Bolter weapons, he carried what appeared to be a lasgun with synthetic wooden parts over the left shoulder, and a shotgun over the right. It was a single-barreled weapon with an eight-shell chamber, making it appear nearly as an elongated revolver. It wasn't like anything he ever saw before. Holstered on his hip was a Ripper auto pistol, a weapon that he saw before in the hands of some of the more well-known soldiers and officers on the planet. A twin of the pistol was holstered on his chest. On his opposite side was an inelegant power sword.

The Inquisitor looked his way. He was a tall man, with swept back dark brown hair and clean-shaven cheeks. Handsome, despite the gnarled, pockmark scar on his right temple and the smaller faded cut on his upper lip. His eyes were of such a dark brown they were nearly black. Yet they retained a gentle knowingness. Coolly, he surveyed the platoon.

"We're going to the fortified town of Army's Meadow. Reports indicate that it's been nearly a standard week since their last transmission. Our mission is to see if the inhabitants have made the audacious, traitorous decision to go renegade or if they're having communications problems. Any questions?"

Everyone kept silent. Marsh took the pipe away from his mouth and exhaled. He understood. Nobody wanted to say something idiotic in front of the Inquisitor. It was a smart decision.

Inquisitor Barlocke nodded. "Good, I expected as much. Captain, I'm ready to depart if Lieutenant Hyram is."

Captain Murga looked at the lieutenant, who nearly flinched.

"Y-yes sir, I'm ready."

"As am I," offered Commissar Ghent.

"That won't be necessary," Captain Barlocke said, holding up a gloved hand. "Given the platoon's experience, I think they can go on a few missions without a Commissar. I'm sure you're needed to prepare the regiment for full mobilization."

Ghent exchanged a glance with Murga. The former was the ranking Commissar in the regiment, and was personally sent by the Colonel to oversee Lieutenant Hyram. Silently, the Commissar nodded. Nobody could refuse the Inquisitor.

Barlocke turned to Marsh Silas. He smiled a little and nodded. Marsh turned on his heel.

"Bloody Platoon, fall out!"

###

Moving at high speed, six lonely Chimeras crossed Mason Bridge connecting Army's Meadow Peninsula to the mainland. Dust from the dirt road billowed out from under their treads. Bits of stone shuddered and vibrated on the pavement as they passed. Flanking them on both sides were fields of yellow flowers, swaying back and forth in the wind coming off the sea. The cape was long and narrow; the embankments on either side led downward to the white sandy beaches. But from the firing ports of the armored personnel carriers, no one could glimpse the dark blue waters or the white breakers pounding the shore. One could only see the meadows on either side, seas in themselves, that earned the cape's name.

Standing in the open turret of the first vehicle, Marsh Silas thought it looked as though they were on a floating island of flowers, cruising on the ocean waters. He looked ahead with a pair of magnoculars. As gusts of wind hit the shores, causing the flowers to flurry, he could see no figures moving among them. Only once before had his boots ever stepped on the queer little dagger of land. The inhabitants, Cadian folk like him, had been moving through the fields of high flowers. Their arms were outstretched, feeling the soft petals brush against their palms and fingers. Fortress Worlds were planets of martial society; to see such carefree attitudes among the cape's populace was out of order and suspect. During that first visit, they came to install a larger Planetary Defense Force in the sole village at the far end of the cape. It was to remind the Army's Meadow capers the threat of invasion was ever-present; they needed to be ready in case some clever Eldar, devious Chaos, or one of the more cunning Ork Warbosses decided to use it as a staging ground. But, he remembered the women and children running through the flowers, smiling wide, the sun shining on their faces. There had been some beauty in that, he recalled fondly. Nowhere else on Cadia was a place like this. Why the flowers sprouted here, no one knew.

He lowered the magnoculars from his violet colored eyes. Without his helmet on, his neat golden blonde hair was thrown around by the wind. Letting the magnoculars hang from his neck, he eased back inside the Chimera, closing the hatch over his head. Heading back to his seat at the rear of the APC, the men of Third Squad, led by Sergeant Queshire, nodded at him or muttered a respectful, 'Marsh Silas.' Somebody reached out and bumped their fist against his olive-colored pauldron. As he went, he smiled at each man and gave them a pat on the shoulder or gave their bandoliers a quick tug. When he reached his seat, he took his helmet from atop his rucksack, pulled his tactical balaclava up, leaving his face exposed, and donned the helmet. Pushing the rucksack onto the floor of the APC with a metallic _thump_, he sat back down, taking his M36 Kantrael into his hands. Also leaning against the seat beside him was his power sword, still in its sheath. While most sergeants were expected to wield the sword𑁋not only a weapon but a symbol of their authority𑁋and a laspistol, Marsh preferred to carry an M36 and go to the sword when the circumstances called for it. Still, he kept an autopistol holstered on his chest plate. On his right boot was a scabbard containing a trench knife. A knuckle duster of cold adamantium with three, small square bolts could break a jaw in a thousand places, an old friend once told him.

Sighing, he leaned back, reached into his pocket, and procured his ebony pipe. The stem had a slight, downward curve to it. On the front of the bowl was a golden, miniature Aquila. From his rucksack, he retrieved a match and some tabac leaves. After filling the bowl a little, he struck the match, lit the contents, and began puffing away. Anything to drive away the smell of fuel, grease, and body odor.

"Much easier to smoke good ol' lho-sticks, Marsh Silas," said Sergeant Queshire, a man almost too thin to be a Guardsman, or a Cadian, for that matter. "You've got to fuss around with that thing in the time you take one out and light it."

"It's a lot smoother." He handed the pipe over to Queshire, who took a few puffs, and nodded. "See?"

"Damned good," he complimented, handing it back over. "Very smooth, indeed. My thanks."

Marsh smoked as Queshire went on. "Don't see why that Inquisitor thinks this place is worth checking out just because of some radio problems. He won't find nothing."

From the moment he entered the Chimera, Marsh had been thinking about their mission. Despite the Cadian hierarchy's best efforts to conceal them, old hands like him had a dusting of knowledge of the Inquisition's work. Agents of the Ordo Malleus were always working within and outside the ranks of the homeworld regiments. With so many active cults inhabiting the crags, citadels, and crevices of the large planet, they were always busy, even if one couldn't see them. Yet this Inquisitor was from the Ordo Hereticus, not the Ordo Malleus. It was rare to see such an individual on Cadia. Such a martial planet, unified in its combat against the forces of Chaos, did not require witch hunters so much as daemonhunters.

Heresy, however, was a rather broad term, and Army's Meadow owned an infamous reputation for being less than cordial with communication, as well as providing bodies for the Whiteshields, or what Cadians referred to as the Youth Army. With only one village of fishers and a small garrison, it inadvertently slipped under the eye of the Lord Castellan's administration, despite its strategic importance. Anyone worth their salt, Marsh knew, understood there were more pressing concerns on the mainland. Defensive plans regarding it were simple anyways; the local Interior Guard garrison would evacuate, blow the bridge, which was always rigged with explosives, and the enemy force would be trapped on the narrow cape. Artillery and airstrikes could make quick work of a vanguard then. As well, not many worried about corruption at the tendrils of Chaos. Its inhabitants only numbered a thousand, including the Interior Guard garrison made up of hearty Cadian folk. Still, perhaps someone high on the chain had become more wary of the cape dwellers' reluctance to aid the cause. Suspicions were rising, possibly, so an agent was called for.

An Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus could sniff out any heretical methods or teachings in moments. If a bastion within the tiny town were heretics, or had turned entirely to Chaos, they could easily be dispatched. Bloody Platoon was experienced in putting down armed cultists. Two months prior, they took part in, or conducted counter-cult operations, and saw eleven different enclaves utterly eradicated. Considered a reliable and expert hunter-killer unit, the platoon received a commendation from regimental command and several of the men were mentioned in dispatches. Marsh Silas was one of those men. For their service, the entire regiment was granted ten day's furlough in Kasr Soliq. Not exactly a pleasure destination, but booze and decent grub had been aplenty. Unfortunately, it was cut short by the arrival of their new CO and the call for an investigation into Army Meadow's silence. Never having been accompanied by an agent before was putting the men on edge. A few were certainly disappointed, Marsh knew, as they took a great deal of pride in being able to purge their homeworld of the Chaotic taint. Queshire's question was not the first he heard inside the Chimera.

"You're right. Vox-set's probably fouled up. Salt spray and sea air tends to muck equipment far faster, and knowing these fools in the Interior Guard, they'd have set up their Vox in the surf."

Queshire snickered. The Cadian Planetary Defense Force, called the Interior Guard, was better than most. The Interior Guard had a solid reputation. It was made up of men and women with plenty of experience staving off invaders. Compared to some ragtag PDF's in the Imperium, they had access to excellent wargear to boot. Still, they weren't Shock Troopers. For as many skilled personnel the Interior Guard possessed, there were just as many individuals hoping to just run through their mandatory service period to obtain a position that didn't require them to be on the frontline. Despite their martial society, there was still a disgraceful minority that moved against the tide. Shock Trooper regiments could always be relied upon for experience, discipline, and marksmanship, among other qualities. Marsh checked himself however; it wasn't fair for men of his regiment to mock the Interior Guard. All one had to do was ask why the 1333rd hadn't been granted the honor of serving off-world. When someone pointed that out, a man of the 1333rd padlocked their mouths, chagrined.

Marsh waved his hand. "Command wants to be sure, just in case. We'll go in, Drummer Boy will fix their Vox, we'll take a quick look around to make sure they're all set, and rejoin the regiment. In and out."

In truth, Marsh Silas wasn't all that worried, just wary. Not seeing any of the villagers skipping through the yellow flowers and enjoying the crisp, sunny day was not a good sign. Although, the Army's Meadow folk were an odd bunch. Why they remained on the strip of land no one knew. Like many of the folks who lived outside of Kasr's, they squatted in the remnants of an abandoned fortified camp. Instead of being cleared like other squatter towns, the PDF garrison occupied it and the noncombatants were allowed to stay. They cleared the flowers and attempted to grow some crops. Cadia was a Fortress World, although the Interior Guard garrison was out of the way and sending supply convoys didn't seem as efficient as having the few civilians feed them. Yet, the flowers always grew back, making it impossible to grow crops. They grew with speed, almost overnight, so they said. It was very strange to see such flowers in the colder regions of Cadia and even more so they grew so fast and only on Army's Meadow.

Queshire continued to run his mouth. He was known for that.

"Did you see the lieutenant earlier? Dandy doesn't seem like he belongs in uniform."

"We'll get the full measure of the man when we see action."

"Unless a cultist puts one in his head."

"He's Cadian born," Marsh offered as he puffed on his pipe. "Hopefully that will count for something. It should."

It'd better, he thought to himself.

It wasn't much longer when the driver, Master Sergeant Tindall, turned slightly in his seat.

"Sixty seconds."

The countdown. Even with no apparent danger, doctrine demanded they come in fast and hard, to be ready for anything. Marsh Silas felt his muscles tense up. From the bowels of Valkyries, or in the confines of a Chimera, the words were echoed thousands of times. Sixty to thirty. Thirty to fifteen. Fifteen to ten. Ten to five. Each man muttered a final prayer. Then, silence; the engines cut. An abrupt stop. The hatch would lower. _Go, go, go! _And he was out the door. Countless times, he stormed out into the fray. Eldar, Orks, cultists, and Chaos warbands attacked the planet, sometimes in huge planet-wide offensives or a series of raids. Marsh fought all three foes and couldn't decide which he detested most. Yet, he found when he was in those few, anxious moments waiting for the rear to open, he felt an eerie presence within himself. Something solid, understandable, simple in its construct. Out there was the enemy. Yet as Tindall lowered the ramp and gave a final order, and Marsh tapped the side of his pipe against the seat, dumping the ashes, he couldn't help but feel that lack of presence. Silence offered no certainty like that of a waiting enemy.

Bloody Platoon rushed out, forming a perimeter. It wasn't long before, 'All clear!' cries ran down the line. The Guardsmen eased up as they began to assemble. Men finished lho-sticks and flicked the butts away. Tucking his pipe away, Marsh headed outside into the chilly air. Rounding the side of the Chimera, he headed forward to the mouth of the village. Bloody Platoon was gathering there. Sergeants rallied their squads together, the Special Weapons Squads prepared their equipment, and the heavies waited for orders. Marsh headed in between them all.

"What's this then, a mob? Let us have order!" Marsh barked. "Come on now, men! Stick to your squad leaders, make sure you have your kit, wait for orders. Stand to, stand to, for the Emperor's sake!"

Being the platoon sergeant, he was attached to the command squad. As such, he was expected to be at the lieutenant's side. More importantly, however, a platoon sergeant's true place was to be in the thick of the men, relaying orders to the squad leaders for their own men. It's where Marsh enjoyed being most. Each squad had a sergeant, corporal, combat medic, Voxman, plasma rifleman, grenadier, and the remainder was made up of line troopers armed with a variety of lasweapons and autoweapons. Veterans acquired better equipment over time, and Bloody Platoon enjoyed a decent arsenal. He could hear plasma rifles humming, troopers making sure their bayonets were firmly attached. Men patted their vests, flak armor, bandoliers, webbing, and one another's backpacks. Going around, he inspected their rucksacks and belts, tugging, readjusting, distributing loads. Satisfied they were in top shape as they formed up, he made his way to the platoon leader, ahead of everyone else.

Lieutenant Hyram turned to face him. Marsh Silas saluted, and the gesture was returned. The other members did not salute, but merely nodded in respect. Command squads were generally dynamic; a platoon leader could pick and choose which men he wanted. A staple, of course, was the color sergeant. Bloody Platoon's flag-bearer was Color Sergeant Babcock, a rugged, earthly, bombastic fellow with crew-cut hair who kept the sides and back shaved. He never wore a helmet, which Marsh thought utterly mad. But what color sergeant wasn't mad? Corporal Gladwin, otherwise known as Drummer Boy, was the platoon leader's personal Vox operator. By the standards of the ragtag veterans of Bloody Platoon, he was the greenest trooper next to Hyram, having only two years on top of his four in the Whiteshields. Everyone else had four or five. Marsh had six. Although Drummer Boy was a bit twitchy in his demeanor and he put more care into his appearance than his weapon, he was an expert with the Vox-caster and fought very well. Finally, there was their field medic, Sergeant Honeycutt. A learned chap with hair as golden as his name though a personality not as sweet, he was just as handy with medicine as he was with a lasgun. He was considered wise to all. Lieutenant Overton, the previous platoon leader, raised him to the command squad because of his intelligence. Hyram made a good choice keeping him there.

Also present was the Inquisitor, who still had his weapons slung over his shoulders. He was standing among the command squad, calm and quiet. He was turning his hat in his hands, straightening the brim. When he was satisfied, he placed it atop his head. He stood different than someone with authority. Such men jutted their chins out and kept noses high so they could look down at the person they were speaking to. Huffing and puffing, they would make demand after demand. Instead, Barlocke kept his shoulders a bit hunched and kept looking at his surroundings, as if an artillery shell were about to fall. To the eyes of Marsh Silas, his posture was like that of an infantryman's.

As Lieutenant Hyram fiddled with his data-slate, Marsh gazed into the town. The village sat on the tip of Army's Meadow, which rose into a high cliff. There was no other place to build; it was the only area on the cape where flowers didn't grow. Most of the buildings were located here, on either side of the road which led to a meeting hall of sorts at the very end. To the left, the buildings tapered down a gradual slope to a beach, where all their fishing gear was located. Most of the one story houses were constructed from rockcrete. Many were old barracks, blockhouses, and pillboxes. Yards were marked by chest-high walls of similar material.. Still, it was a weak spot. Instead of the jagged, angular turns of Kasr roads, there was just one road going up and down the cape. Any defender would struggle trying to protect it.

All was still. None of the villagers were outside. Laundry lines snapping in the breeze were the only sounds to be heard. He sniffed the air; he couldn't smell food cooking. No smoke rose from the chimneys. Slowly, he turned round and round, checking each house. No lights were on. Yards seemed to be a bit overgrown with grass. Marsh scrutinized it for some time, then went over to the command squad again. Brow furrowed, eyes suspicious, he kept looking. Wheelbarrows and tools sat beside buildings and in yards, as if hastily discarded. Down his gaze went, searching for footprints. He found none in the patches of dirt, no indents in the gravel. Nothing but the standard, trodden paths the villagers walked. Pebbles littered the paved road, which merged into a dirt path towards the center of town. Sandbag emplacements were devoid of sentires and weapons. The guard towers were empty. Feeling a pit in his stomach, he turned his M36's safety off and cautioned the others to do the same with a quick hand gesture. Chatter died down as the men began turning and looking around.

"Sir, I think..." he hesitated as he found Hyram still fumbling with the map function of his dataslate. Marsh frowned. "...sir, we're at the right place. There's only one Army's Meadow."

"Yes, quite right, quite." Lieutenant Hyram stuffed it into one a pocket and looked around. "Where are the townsfolk? And the Interior Guard?"

"Perhaps they're out fishing," Honeycutt suggested, his sarcasm thinly disguised.

"The women and children would still be around," Babcock said, then spat out a glob of brown chewing tabac.

"What do you make of it, Staff Sergeant Cross?" The Inquisitor asked suddenly. Everyone looked at him, including the lieutenant.

"No radio communication in days, no signs of life, no sentries posted...we should treat the area as if it's hostile. We should sweep it."

Lieutenant Hyram looked uneasily down the road, into the town.

"Alright, make it happen, staff sergeant."

Marsh turned on his heel.

"Alright, Bloody Platoon, listen up!"

He quickly outlined a sweep of the town. The command squad would take Holmwood's First Squad up the main road to investigate the meeting hall. Taking the right flank, Mottershead's Second Squad would move with half of the Special Weapons Guardsmen to search the Interior Guard military installations adjacent to the incline that led up to the hall. Third Squad, led by Queshire, would take the remaining specials down to the beach to comb through the huts and sheds there. All three areas would, hopefully, yield evidence as to where the populace was. Going house by house would be too tedious, the Inquisitor had said. Their two Heavy Weapons Squads would remain behind to establish a perimeter at the mouth of the town. As a precaution, Marsh had the Chimeras turn one-hundred eighty degrees, so they were facing away from the town rather than staring into it. This would strengthen the perimeter as well as provide a quick means of retreat in case there was an ambush.

During the briefing, Marsh hoped Lieutenant Hyram would join in and add to the strategy. It was a simple plan the platoon was used to, he just hoped the junior officer would assert himself. More than once, they were ordered to search other abandoned fortified towns, garrisons, and camps far away from the Kasrs, investigating reports of heretics and cultists who were carrying out guerrilla actions against Cadian units and defenses. Still, it would have been better for the new platoon leader to give the instructions, rather than him.

Slowly, Bloody Platoon moved into the village. Weapons were raised, bayonets glinted, and men looked around constantly. They turned as they walked, stepping methodically, doing their best not to disturb the environment around them. Cautiously, they peered through windows, ducked under clothes lines, and clambered over stone walls. Looking left and right as he moved down the road, Marsh watched the men disperse. Faintly, he could hear their booted feet crunching on the grass and gravel, their rucksacks going _clump-clump-clump_, a steady _huuum _from the plasma guns some Guardsmen carried, and the steady _hisssss_ of Corporal Tatum's ready flamer, over with Third Squad.

"How old are you, Staff Sergeant?"  
Marsh turned abruptly to his left to find Inquisitor Barlocke. He gravitated to the right side of the main road with half the squad. The command squad and the rest of the First were on the left. Only Lieutenant Hyram walked in the center.

He glanced at the Inquisitor, then at the lieutenant, and between the two several times. The latter was walking up the middle of the road. Even Whiteshields knew that on a patrol, one didn't stand in the center of the road. Standing at the sides allowed the patrolmen to roll or dive into cover faster.

"Twenty-four standard years, Inquisitor...sir, _pick_ a side of the road," he said past Barlocke. Lieutenant Hyram turned slightly, perplexed. "It's dangerous, sir." Finally taking heed, the junior officer went to the left side.

"I thought as much. You've seen much action but you still look like a boy."

"Been in long as I have, you act old right-quick."

"A face can betray the truth, can it not? Your platoon leader," the Inquisitor whispered, "he could perhaps be a general waiting to be unleashed underneath his timidness."

Marsh Silas chose to say nothing. Inquisitor Barlocke continued to linger beside him, looking straight ahead.

Up the slope, the two squads approached the meeting hall. It was a squat, square building, with hardly any unique qualities. Sandbags lined the base, firing ports dotted the walls, and the door was made of heavy metal. Cautiously, the two squads approached the door. Marsh took point, turned around, and ordered First Squad to stack up on the right side of the door, and the command squad to do the same on the left. Quickly, the men got into position. Closest to the door on the left side, with his lasgun in one hand, Marsh gripped the large handle. A hand settled on his right shoulder. Looking back over briefly, he saw the Inquisitor hunched over, his odd-looking weapon at the ready in his other hand. Across from Marsh was Sergeant Holmwood, tall, broad-chested, clean-shaven, the spitting image of a Cadian.

Marsh mouthed the count, his words no more than a breath.

"One...two...three."

They flung the doors open and stormed in, forming a semicircle, their weapons training back and forth in small horizontal arcs. It was dark. "Lights!" Marsh ordered. Lasgun-mounted flashlights lit up the room. In front of them, benches that had been arranged in two rows were strewn about. Black laser burns scarred the walls. Bullet holes lined the floor and the furniture. Imperial banners hanging from the columns on either side of the chamber were burned and tattered. Autogun cartridges and bullet casings sat in dark red stains. Tomes of the Imperial Cult were burned and their pages were ripped out. A gust of wind followed the men into the chamber, unsettling the loose pages. Rustling, the pages flew all about, fluttering upwards, downwards, to the sides, sliding across the floor, dancing in the stark white light emanating from their weapons.

Inquisitor Barlocke stepped forward, lowering his bulky lasgun. He gracefully plucked a page from the air and held it up to his eyes. After a moment, he let it go. Another gust of wind blew through the doorway, catching the paper, sailing it away from him.

He turned around and faced the men.

"Judging from the burns on the wall and the bloodstains, whatever calamity struck this hall occurred two days ago, perhaps three." He looked around one again. "The corpses were undoubtedly moved. Here...drag marks."

Barlocke motioned for Marsh Silas to come forward. As he approached, his boots kicked the casings, sending them clinking and rolling across the wooden floor. Following the Inquisitor's hand, he looked down ahead, to the foot of the podium at the end of the room, where there was a large pool of blood. To its left were long stains, leading back into the darkness.

Ordering First Squad to continue searching the hall, Marsh, Barlocke, and the Command Squad followed the drag stains to a doorway in the back of the room, behind an extended section of wall. Behind the wall was a bookcase and a table with a priest's bloodied brown robes bundled upon it. What the purpose of the small door was unknown to them. Perhaps a secondary exit in case of an emergency? A subtle entryway for the priest to arrive and deliver his sermons? Either way, without reinforcement or firing ports, an experienced Guardsman like Marsh Silas found it to be a structural weak point.

Opening the door, sunlight flooded in. It led out to a short stretch of grass, leading to the edge of the cliff. In line formation, the command squad approached. Salty breezes ruffled their clothing. Looking down, Marsh could see many jagged rocks and boulders. Expecting to see the bodies strewn among them, he was both relieved and perplexed by their absence. At the bottom there was simply more sand, just a short bastion which seemed to lead to the steep rock face. White breakers continued to roll upon the shore.

Standing beside him, Inquisitor Barlocke turned to the left of the squad. "Look there." A steep, narrow path cut down into the rocks, winding from side to side, until it met with the beach. Plenty of footprints could be seen, and the path seemed disturbed. Tufts of grass in the center had been flattened and there were indents in dirt, as if something had been placed or dropped.

Below, Sergeant Queshire and Third Squad came into view. They had just moved beyond the scattered beach huts. Racks of fishing poles, wooden cages with metal meshing, large nets, and rotten crates sat around them.

"Find anything, Sergeant!?" Lieutenant Hyram called down to him.

"Sir, it's best to keep our voices down and use our helmet Vox-links," Marsh Silas advised.

"Oh. Yes, quite right. I'd forgotten about those."

"Emperor preserve us," Marsh heard Babcock mutter.

"We've looked through the huts. Found nothing but stinking, rotting fish. Many footprints. Just below you there looks like some kind of cave. We're going in now," Queshire explained over the comm-bead.

Deciding to join them, Marsh and the command squad traversed the path down to the beach. Twice, Hyram nearly lost his footing and Marsh was forced to reach out and take him by the arm. The man could hardly keep himself level. His rucksack was improperly packed and was heavy on the left, making him walk in a lopsided fashion. Many of his pouches were unbuttoned and it seemed like one of his boots wasn't tied properly.

How did someone like this make it into the Shock Troops, Marsh wondered.

Joining Third Squad at the bottom, they approached the mouth of the cave. An eerie, low moan rose from its dark depths. Hyram stopped dead in his tracks.

"Just the wind, sir," Marsh assured him. "Lights on. I'm on point."

Once more, the Inquisitor was at his side as the Guardsmen slowly filtered into the cave. Light cut through the darkness, revealing wet rock on either side. It was a moderately sized passage, at its slimmest, only one man could pass through at a time, two at its widest. Outside, the waves began to crash more frequently and with greater ferocity. Combined with the wind, which was picking up, it made for a strange, muffled din. Within the confines of the passage, they could hear water dripping and trickling down the rocks. Boots crunched on pebbles or squished into the odd patch of sand. Buttstocks bumped into the uneven walls. Marsh kept his lasgun up, the light trained forward. It felt as though he were moving down a winding path, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the cliff. The beam of his side-mounted flashlight was rendered useless as it only lit up a few feet before he had to change direction. White lights from the other men flashed around behind him. He brought the barrel of his lasgun closer and turned the attachment off. Reaching into his kit bag, a rectangular satchel slung over his right shoulder, he produced an extra lamp pack. "Emperor guide us," he whispered gently as he activated it. As he blew the dust from it, warm yellow light surrounded him and illuminated the cavern passage. Behind him, he could hear _click-click-click _as the others turned off their flashlight attachments. Everyone looked up to see the ceiling of the passage was much higher than they thought. Stalactites hung over their heads, gnarled and ghastly. Some appeared to hang precariously, and a few voices murmured their fear of them falling. Marsh assured them they would not, and led them forward, holding the fist-sized lamp out in front of him.

Suddenly, a foul stench began to fill his nose. Marsh sniffed the air. Mingling with the scents of wet sand, moist rock, and salt air, there was a decay, a rotting smell. As they pushed further in, the smell grew more intense. Men began to cough and spit, wrapping bandanas and rags around their lower faces. Even Inquisitor Barlocke pulled his dark tactical scarf up over his nose. Marsh was about to give the order to don gas masks and respirators when the path finally opened up into a large chamber. Here, the ceiling was a bit higher. Yet, instead of stalactites hanging down, bare human corpses were strung up by their feet. Dozens upon dozens of bloodied bodies, some missing heads, arms, hands, ears, noses, teeth, and lips. Others were castrated, scalped, or had their eyes gouged out and their tongues removed. Quite a few had their bowels opened. Intestines hung from their opened bellies, and organs sat in grisly piles. Looks of horror were frozen to their faces. Some were so mangled it was impossible to tell if they were man or woman.

As the men entered, they lit their lamps and held them high, turning and gazing at the scores of hanging corpses.

"Emperor protect us," somebody murmured.

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,452


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

Marsh Silas watched as Lieutenant Hyram shuddered, keeled over, and vomited. His coughing filled the chamber.

The platoon sergeant approached the nearest corpse. From the man's neck, he could see a metal chain with two metal discs. He took them carefully into his hand.

"Dog tags. This man hails from the Interior Guard."

"What reason for this bloodshed, then?" Sergeant Honeycutt asked, looking around. "Soldier and citizen alike hang here."

"I think our reason can be found right here..."

Everyone looked at Inquisitor Barlocke. He had veered away from the others and was standing by what appeared some kind of stone altar. It was drenched in blood. Turning around, he held out his hand. "Sergeant, your lamp."

Marsh approached him. Behind the altar was a large flat rock. Painted in blood was the Star of Chaos Undivided. Eight lines with triangular points, all varying in size, jutted out from within the thin inner circle, cutting through the thick outer rim. Dagger points filled the void in between each shaft.

Voices murmured short prayers. Marsh stiffened.

"Marsh Silas! Mottershead and Holmswood are reporting in," Drummer Boy said. "Second Squad found the Vox unit all busted up and dozens of the Interior Guard troopers murdered in their beds. First Squad found a hatch to the basement in the hall. They found more bodies and symbols of Chaos."

Marsh Silas inhaled sharply. The garrison had been murdered by cultists. The survivors had turned to the Ruinous Powers and were hiding somewhere on the cape. In the fields? In the houses they passed? And here they were, just a single platoon, separated. They had to act.

He turned to the Lieutenant, and took his arm.

"Sir, we're about to be up to our necks in cultists. I think we ought to regroup and make a stand at the hall, call in reinforcements."

"But we haven't seen any cultists yet. And the Inquisitor is in command, staff sergeant," Lieutenant Hyram said timidly.

"I think it's best if we fall back to a more defensible position. The bridge should do," Inquisitor Barlocke said. "Pull the squads back to the Chimeras. You there, with the Vox, radio the regiment. We need everybody here. We don't know the extent of this corruption or how it originated. Move!"

###

All three squads and the specialists met in the square, among the abandoned market stalls, and quickly made their way back to the Chimeras. The men on guard duty said they hadn't spotted any movement. Marsh ushered them all in. The command squad and one of the Heavy Weapons Squads took to the first APC, the infantry squads dispersed among the other four Chimeras, and the Special Weapons Squads occupied the rearguard. Once everyone was inside, Marsh joined Third Squad in the second to last vehicle. Falling into line, the convoy began to draw away from the town.

Standing in the turret, facing the town, Marsh Silas watched for activity. Nothing in the town stirred. No movement, no lights. Why? This wasn't just plain heresy; such violence was clearly influenced by Chaos. Where had the cultists gone? They couldn't have just up and walked away? There was only one way off the cape, via the Mason Bridge. Somebody would have seen such an exodus despite its remote location.

About five hundred meters from the town, he turned around in the turret, resting one hand on the pintle-mounted Heavy Bolter. As his thoughts lingered, his gaze fell. That's when he noticed something on the road. A small yet peculiar bump just off to the side. The tan earth surrounding it seemed disturbed. As they passed by, he leaned over the edge of the turret and looked at it. There were no other bumps in the road, just treadmarks. Turning around in the open turret, he continued to gaze at it. The rearguard Chimera, just a short distance behind them, rolled over it. Marsh's eyes widened.

A column of earth shot upwards from the forward, left corner of the Chimera. It wasn't a mighty explosion, but enough that the front of the vehicle was demolished and it veered off to the right side of the road. It stalled there, its face nothing but twisted, smoldering metal.

"Halt! Halt! Halt!" Marsh cried into his Vox-link. The entire convoy braked hard. Gunfire erupted from the flowers on either side of the road back near the knocked out Chimera. Muzzle flashes appeared and disappeared among the yellow flowers. Ducking back in, he kept a finger to the side of his helmet. "Lieutenant! We've got hostiles approaching the rearguard! Requesting orders!"

Silence. "Sir? Sir, do you copy?"

"I don't...I don't know...I don't know..." came the weak voice.

"Damn it," Marsh swore as the bullets pinged against the hull. "Alright, alright, alright...Master Sergeant Tindall? Get these beasts turned around into line formation. We'll dismount and use the Chimeras as cover. Heavies, stay inside and man the side-mounted lasguns. We've gotta get the specials outta there before they're swarmed!"

The engine roared to life as the Chimera turned around. Pulling the gunner down from the turret, Marsh jumped back up. Bullets whizzed over his head as he watched the movement of the convoy. Their Chimera took to the center, staying on the road. Two rolled into the flowers on their left flank, as did the other two on the right. Intervals were maintained. Bobbing up and down as gunfire trained on his position, he struggled to view the stranded Chimera. He could see the disheveled shapes of cultists, raggedly dressed, carrying second-rate autoguns, racing for the disabled APC. Some clambered on top of it. Several went to the turret and used one of their rifle barrels to open up the turret hatch. A jet of flame suddenly burst out, burning the cultists around the turret. Their clothes, hair, and faces caught fire. Screaming madly, they tumbled down. Emerging from the turret was Corporal Tatum, his flamethrower hot. Turning around, he hosed the remaining cultists with flame, sending them flailing off. He then pulled himself out amid the gunfire and jumped down, followed by some of the surviving specialists.

Jumping back down, Marsh Silas ordered the hatch to be lowered. Everyone stormed out and the squad assembled behind the Chimera. Racing to the command squad, he slid next to wide-eyed Lieutenant Hyram, who was keeping one hand on his helmet and the other clutching his lasgun to his chest. "Sir, sir..." Marsh said, grabbing him his strap and jostling him. "Sir...sir...fuck it! Master Sergeant Tindall!" He hollered into the APC. "Move your Chimeras forward, slowly! Hit them with multi-lasers!"

Streams of red light peppered the flowers, cutting down the unarmored cultists as they rose. Yet as one fell, another took his place. They seemed to be rising from the fields of flowers, like undead who had long been buried beneath their petals. Slowly, the APC's rolled forward, their treads flattening the flowers, cutting swaths through them. Troopers stayed right behind them, occasionally squeezing off a few shots around the corner before ducking back. Men cycled their magazines and charge packs with a fury. Marsh walked up and down the line of Chimeras, going from group to group. "Aim low, you men! Aim low, fire slow! Choose your targets! Keep it up!" As their outgoing fire began to focus, losing its initial ferocity in favor of precision, he returned to his APC.

Looking around the corner, he saw the survivors taking cover behind the wreckage of the rearguard. Several Guardsmen were lying dead in the dirt, one slumped over in the turret. Arnold Yoxall, the demolitions expert, primed a satchel charge, and tossed it into the field to the left side. Moments later it exploded, sending dirt, flowers, and limbs flying into the air. On the right, Tatum continued to cast fire into the encroaching horde of cultists, setting the flowers ablaze. The rest armed themselves with plasma guns and were firing as quickly as they could into the flowers or around the Chimera, keeping the enemy at bay. Even the sniper, Bullard, and his spotter, Derryhouse, took up medium range arms to protect themselves.

Scrambling into Tindall's APC, Marsh went to the turret, and began firing the Heavy Bolter in short controlled bursts. He focused on the muzzle flashes, or the quick figures dashing through the flowers. One burst there, another there. A man got up in the hopes of rushing the Chimera. Another burst. A hit! The heavy rounds riddled his waist tearing open his flesh and knocking him to the ground. One more was coming. One burst, two more. Another hit! One of the rounds struck and opened his head. His form crumpled over, lifeless. With teeth clenched, ear drums ringing, eyes focused, he continued to rake the ragged enemy line with bolts. The automatic fire was like a scythe cutting down swathes of flowers. Yellow petals filled the air, stalks were slashed to pieces, and blood splashed everywhere.

Cultists attempted to set up missile launchers taken from the Interior Guard arsenal. But they were not trained in such arms, and took too long. Men on the pintle-mounted guns got them before they could even launch a missile. Others were riddled by the turret-mounted multi-lasers, firing at a tremendous rate.

The Chimera line approached the smoking wreck of the rearguard. Tindall maneuvered to the side of it as Marsh Silas leaned over the side. "Get behind us!" Quickly the remaining specialists fell in behind the rear of the APC.

Sinking back inside, he went out to meet the soot covered men. "Is everyone alright?" he asked over the noise.

"One piece, Marsh Silas!" cried Sergeant Stainthorpe, smiling widely as he planted a heavy hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder.

"Where are they coming from? Did you see?"

"There's some kind of spider hole on either side of the road. I saw it with mine-own eyes!" hollered Tatum.

"We ought to plug those holes!" Yoxall added.

"Right! Tatum, Yoxall, Hitch, with me!"

Keeping the Chimeras advancing towards the town at a steady pace, the four men sprinted towards the left flank. Reaching the farthest Chimera, Marsh could see what they meant. With so many flowers cut to ribbons, burned, or flattened, he could see the tunnel entrance quite clearly. It was a simple, square hole with wooden framing, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. A cover with false flowers was off to the side. How they manage to cut through the peculiar roots of the fast-growing flowers didn't matter to the men at that moment. As the Chimera rolled up next to it, the men inside fired side-mounted lasguns down into it, cutting down each cultist attempting to scramble out. When sufficiently suppressed, Marsh and Hitch slid up to the hole, pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade, and dropped it inside. The explosion resulted in screams and dust. While Yoxall primed another satchel charge, Tatum dipped his flamethrower inside and pulled the trigger. More wretched screaming rose up and flames licked the edges. When the charge was ready, Yoxall tossed it in and they retreated back to the safety of the Chimera. The explosion collapsed the entrance to the shaft and the earth some meters beyond it. Judging from the moans and the limbs protruding from the disrupted earth, it had not been dug deep.

The four men repeated the same task on the right flank, rolling and sprinting between the Chimeras. The second tunnel met the same fate. With their flanks secure, they turned their attention forward. Once more, Bloody Platoon was approaching the town. The cultists stranded in the field did not flee, forming a staggered line. As the Chimeras began to approach, the cultists continued to fall. More came from the village dwellings, but their line was bowing. Lasbolts peppered their legs, tore away their flesh and clothing. So many high caliber rounds struck single targets that their chests were blown open, revealing ribs and intestines. Wounded cultists were flattened beneath treads or executed with a single shot to the head from a carefully aimed pistol as the Guardsmen passed. Soon their line in front of the town was crushed, though another was forming on its edge, dispersed among their homes.

Order was being restored. Even Lieutenant Hyram overcame his stupor and was now firing as he walked slowly behind the corner of a Chimera. Cultists took up positions inside their dwellings or behind the rockcrete walls, rendering their light autoguns and lasguns practically useless. He was firing his lasgun at a cultist behind one of the walls; each red, blue, or golden lasbolt seared by far over the targets head.

Marsh put a hand on the officer's back. "Sir, you're firing too high. Lower your weapon a bit...there you go. And don't pull the trigger sir, see? You're pullin' it. Squeeze it, sir! Squeeze it! There, there, feel that resistance? Good, good, now fire!" The lieutenant still missed. "Make sure the butt is pressed firmly into your shoulder, like this. Here, let me...there you go, sir! Alright let's do some proper killin' then!"

Taking to his knee, he aimed, and squeezed the trigger just as Hyram did. With a single shot, Marsh dropped the cultist. "There you go sir, you nailed him!"

"But I didn't𑁋"

"Yes you did, I saw it! Keep it up, sir!"

Over the vox-link, Tindall's raspy voice rose up.

"Marsh Silas, we're about to hit the edge of the town. Going in any further will be dangerous for the Chimeras."

He was right. The town, while somewhat sparse in its density, was still too narrow for armored personnel carriers to be of any assistance. They would be sitting ducks for grenades or missiles. Now it was time for the infantry to do their work

As the Chimeras stopped, Marsh waved his hand in the air.

"Form up on me!" Each of the three infantry squads, the remaining specialists, and the heavies assembled around him, taking cover behind three of the Chimeras, were still spewing Heavy Bolter and multi-laser fire into the town. "Listen up𑁋can everyone hear me? We're assaulting the town."

Marsh judged from the cultists' retreat the majority were assembling at the old Interior Guard barracks and at the hall. Both structures would be their objectives. First Squad would take the remaining specialists and the Heavy Weapons team operating the autocannon up the right flank of the town would tackle the barracks. Second and Third Squad were to advance house-by-house with the missile launcher team. Each squad had a man armed with a grenade launcher as well, and they would blow apart each house. They would then proceed up to the hall and clear it.

Standing up and checking his lasgun briefly, Marsh looked at the men. "Mortar team, lascannon team, deploy here! Heavy Bolter teams, deploy on the right! Ready?"

"Ready, Marsh Silas!" they all shouted.

"Move out!"

Seizing one of the yards from the cultists as they charged from the Chimera line, had an excellent location to fire at the buildings surrounding them. Corporal Knaggs and Trooper Fletcher deployed the launcher on its tripod and fired a missile into the building directly across from their position. It blew a large hole right in the front. As rockcrete dust settled, disoriented cultists stumbled out, holding their ears or covering their eyes. In that brief moment, bathed in broad daylight, Marsh Silas could see their grayed skin, their wild reddened eyes, their teeth bared like fangs. Skin clung tight to bones and they struggled to lift their autoguns, giving them a terrible, shambling way of moving. Instead of speaking, they just blurted insane babble, hissing, spluttering, growling, and roaring.

With the rest of the Guardsmen, Marsh shot them down as they flooded out. Taking two men from Second Squad𑁋Logue, who used a highly customized autopistol with an extended barrel, clip, and stock, and Foley, who utilized a standard lasgun as well as a heavy double-barreled shotgun𑁋and stormed through the gaping hole. Inside, their eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Several cultists in tattered clothes were trying to find their footing. All were quickly dispatched, falling over the disturbed furniture.

In the corner of the room, they found an open hatch. Marsh Silas figured they must have had more tunnels, or at least some kind of connected basement structure they were hiding in. They dropped a grenade down the hatch for good measure.

When he came back out, he saw that Second and Third Squads were already clearing more houses. Dead cultists littered the ground. Bodies were strewn in the market stalls, slumped over stone walls, in heaps on open grass. Whooping loudly, Knaggs fired another missile into a house. Second Squad stormed in, merrily firing their weapons. Third Squad's grenadier blew the door off another house. When the frags they lobbed in detonated, they stormed in. One cultist attempted to break through, sprinting out of the door. Queshire came out behind, screaming at the top of his lungs. Thrusting his lasgun forward, the bayonet struck the fleeing cultist square in the back. Crying out, she fell down to the ground, face-first. Queshire, along with a second man, kicked the cultist over and bayonet her to death. Blood coated their blades.

It became a quick, rhythmic action. Grenadiers would blow off a door, a frag would follow, the team would rush in, kill everyone in sight, and drop another grenade through the basement hatch. With each house, the tactic was performed quicker and quicker. Bloody Platoon was hitting its stride, the way a bricklayer or a digger would gain their second wind and work harder. House after house was assaulted and cleared. Onto the next they would go, to the next, to the next.

Explosion after explosion rocked the right flank. Ordering Logue and Foley back to their squad, Marsh ran off to join Third Squad. They either cleared or demolished every house up their way. Now they were pinned down behind the stone wall of the last house they had cleared, which was just across from the large blockhouse that acted as the Interior Guard barracks. Crawling along the ground, he came up to Bullard the sniper, who was at the end of the wall.

"What's your situation?" Marsh asked as heavy stubber rounds slammed into the opposite side of the wall.

"Some cultist with a heavy stubber is attempting to disrupt my life, Marsh Silas!" Bullard answered.

"Not much of a problem then," Marsh jested, "seeing as you do that every time we've gone on furlough."

"Well that's of mine-own makin'! When it comes to a fuckin' Chaos worshipper on a stubber, that's an entirely different affair."

"Throw a smoke grenade!"

Bullard primed the canister and whipped it towards the barracks. It landed right under the firing port of the heavy stubber. Moments later, thick white smoke enveloped the front. Jumping to their feet, Marsh and Bullard charged the barracks, slamming into the side of the wall beside the firing port. Attempting to squeeze a grenade into the port would see one of their hands blown off. Looking around, Marsh looked for alternatives. Then he looked up at the roof, which was not any higher than two men.

Quickly, he tapped Bullard on the shoulder to get his attention and motioned to the roof with his thumb. Bullard leveled his long-las, holding it like a plank of wood. Marsh put one foot on it, then Bullard lifted him as he reached up. Snatching the edge of the flat roof, he clambered up and shouldered his lasgun. He extended a hand and pulled the sniper up as well. Going over to the small vent covering at the top, they knocked it off with the butt of Marsh's rifle. Then, Bullard armed a grenade and dropped it down the tube. Crouching low and covering their ears, they felt the deep _boom _reverberate inside. Pained screams rang out and dust flew from the vent and firing ports. All gunfire from within ceased.

When he rose, he spotted Sergeant Mottershead and Second Squad already moving up the slope to the hall. Spotting Marsh, Mottershead made a sweeping motion with his arm. It was the signal for 'all clear.'

Jumping down with Bullard, Marsh rallied First Squad and the Special Weapons experts to him. They went to the heavy door, which they found to be locked. "Yoxall, blow it."

Yoxall dropped his rucksack and opened it up. He pulled out a thin, cylindrical melta chargee and went to the door. He placed it at the base of the door, primed the charge, and attached the detonation wire. Running back, he carried the spool and loosed more wire until he reached the others. First Squad and the specialists took cover behind the ferrocrete wall of the yard. Moments later, the bomb went off in a deafening explosion. A terrible hissing rose with it as intense heat boiled the water in the air away. Looking over the wall, Marsh could see the door melting into white hot slag. Even the initial blast sheared away a great deal of the rockcrete, casting a thick cloud of gray dust. Screaming from within grew louder. Cultists began to stumble out, covered in burns, their flesh seared away. Some clasped their eyes and ears, gripped and covered their exposed bones and blackened skin. As they attempted to get out, they were further burned by the melting metal. First Squad rose up and shot them down.

Marsh pointed at Tatum. "You're up!" With a grin, the flamethrower-wielding Guardsman jumped over the wall. Keeping his distance from the intense heat of the still melting doors, he adjusted the pressure on his weapon, and pulled the triggers. A stream of flame sprung through the door then expanded just inside. It was like he had unleashed a massive fireball. Flames burst from the firing ports and up through the vents.

After a moment, he pointed at Yoxall and Tatum. "Keep hitting it with fire and charges until it's gone! The rest of you men, come with me!" Imperial barracks often didn't just occupy the ground level. More often, they were used as pillboxes, while the actual barracks was underground. It was safe to assume that a great deal of the surviving cultists were assembling below.

Jogging over to Second Squad, which was seated just in front of the hall amid a dozen or so cultist corpses, he found them trying to open the large doors. Mottershead turned to face the platoon sergeant.

"Marsh Silas, we've got more cultists down on the beach. Third Squad could use a hand."

He sent First Squad down to bolster the attack. Clearing the beach would be a more difficult task. There wasn't as much cover and the beach huts could be easily destroyed. Luckily, it gave the cultists no place else to go besides their cavern or the sea. Only the hall remained as the last true obstacle. Marsh ordered Mottershead and Second Squad to get on either side of the path. They were to keep their weapons trained on the door. It was peculiar, he thought, that no gunfire was coming from the ports on either side of the entrance. Were they waiting for them to storm in? Was the door even barred? Had any of the cultists had the tactical sense to use the building for a last stand?

Everyone sank to a knee or stood firm, keeping their weapons up. Marsh proceeded up to the heavy door. Not a single sound rang out within the hall, although with the battle din permeating from the beach, he wouldn't have been able to all the same. Slowly taking the large vertical handle, he pulled on it. It wouldn't budge.

"It's locked this time. Yoxall, we need you up at the𑁋"

Suddenly the door swung open into the hall. In that same instant, Marsh saw a terrible darkness inside, impenetrable like the cavern. Suddenly, a massive, pronged object jutted out and struck him square in the chestplate. The impact knocked the wind out of his chest and sent him over a dozen feet down the path. Landing hard on his side, wheezing for air, he regained his bearings and looked back up. Emerging from the door was a pale purple-skinned monstrosity, with two blackened arms and huge, dull, separated claw-like fingers at the end. They looked like the carapace of a shelled sea animal, oozing and dripping with some manner of clear fluid. Its legs, arms, and armored torso were slender like a woman's, but the head was devoid of hair, and its eyes glowed a haunting red. Instead of lips it possessed two rows of thin, razor-sharp teeth, shaped into a grotesque smile.

"Daemonette!" someone cried as the monster released a shrill scream. Cultists stormed out, brandishing machetes, knives, swords, and clubs. Shooting and yelling, the squad retreated in all directions. But Marsh wasn't fast enough. His eyes caught the daemonette, and in them he caught something strange. Its slender, humanoid features became more prominent, almost alluring. Part of him longed to meet it, another to flee, and in between both, his fear froze his feet to the ground. Laughing, the daemonette sprung down the slope and made for Marsh. To fight the allure of the daemonette was a herculean effort. He thought of the God-Emperor, recited prayers in seconds, pictured the regimental colors, anything to drown out the grip on his mind. Something within him began to fight, a mysterious presence of mind and body. He had not yet fully overcome it, but he was able to raise his M36. With one agile, elegant move, it leaped towards him, its claw pointed right at him. Holding his lasgun by the stock and barrel, he caught the claw with it. He fell on his back and held his lasgun as high above him as he could, just to keep the dull crab-like prongs away. Any sharper and they would have pierced his breastplate moments earlier. Throwing all his might, he pushed back against the daemonette's arm. But it possessed a strength that he could not summon. It's delectable laughter goaded him to give in, let the claws drive into him. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the two prongs slowly descended, coming closer and closer to his unarmored lower abdomen.

Suddenly he heard the tremendous, cracking report of a powerful lasgun. A thick stream of red struck the daemonette's shoulder. The impact was so damaging the entire arm was nearly severed. Howling and screeching, the daemonette staggered back. Marsh looked to his right. Approaching him was the Inquisitor. Casting aside his lasgun, Barlocke drew his eight-chamber shotgun. Slowly and deliberately, he fired. The first shell struck, splashing the daemonette with flame. One after the other, closing in on the daemonette, he fired and fired. Each inferno round exploded against the screaming creature, struggling to attack. But each powerful round sent it stumbling back. When all eight shells were spent, he drew one of the Ripper pistols and unleashed a full clip. Dozens of small, venomous rounds struck the already scorched, staggering monster. Piercing its armor, the effects of the poison could already be seen coursing through its black, visible veins. Burned and poisoned, the beast sank to its knees. Cultists streamed from the hall in an attempt to overtake the Inquisitor. The squad returned, however, and cut them down before they could even take several paces away from the threshold.

Holstering his pistol, Barlocke drew his power sword. Activating it, blue energy enveloped the blade. In one swift, elegant motion, the Inquisitor ran the blade through the daemonette's center. Just as quickly, he withdrew it, spun around, and cut the monster's head off. Blasphemous black blood leaked from its wounds and ran down its torso from the stump. The head tumbled onto the ground and rolled down the hill.

Another pair of arms hooked themselves under Marsh's shoulders and lifted him up.

"I've got you, sergeant!"

It was Lieutenant Hyram. He handed him his lasgun. "Are you alright?"

"Yes sir, thank you," Marsh grunted. He looked over at the Inquisitor, who sheathed his power sword.

"Let's finish this," Barlocke shouted, leading Second Squad and the specialists into the hall. With a terrific war cry, they met the cultists within. From where he stood, Marsh Silas could hear bayonets puncturing flesh, lasbolts, plasma, gunfire, cultists' death throes. Finally retaking air normally, he followed them in. Lieutenant Hyram was at his side. By the time they managed to get into the hall, nearly forty or more bodies littered the floor. These had been the last fighters the cultists could offer, armed with simple melee weapons that couldn't even hope to pierce flak armor. Men stepped over the bodies, finishing off the wounded. Below, he could hear Second Squad killing those remaining in the cellar.

At the rear door that they had discovered before, they found the Inquisitor. Barlocke led them back outside into the stark sunlight. The trio stood at the edge of the cliff and looked over at the beach. First and Third Squad drove the cultists from the cavern and from the beach huts. All the survivors were now running into the sea, slogging through the surf, attempting to swim away. All of the Guardsmen stood on the beach, whooping, hollering, and laughing as they shot at the retreating Chaos-worshippers. The men with autoguns fared better than those with laser weapons.

A bustle on the left caught Marsh's eyes. The two Heavy Bolter teams moved up and set up their tripod mounted weapons at the edge of the cliff. With gleeful smiles, they began raking the water with the bolts. Cultist after cultist fell into the water, or sank beneath the waves. Bullard arrived and began sniping targets as well. After some time, the firing subsided. Only a few cultists who managed to swim underwater were now bobbing in the distance. Lieutenant Hyram was looking at them through his magnoculars.

"They got away."

"The sea will take them, sir," Marsh said, wiping the dirt from his face with the back of his gloved hand. "They won't be able to fare the channel."

"Where could they possibly be going?" Hyram said.

Raising his own magnoculars, Marsh gazed at the opposite side of the shallow channel. Across from Army's Meadow by some fourteen kilometers was an island Kasr of old. Destroyed millennia ago, the dark gray bones of Kasr Fortis still stood high. It practically covered the entire island. Studying the shore, he saw where the old piers had been. There, he saw small fishing boats. Near those boats, he saw shadowy figures retreating to the safety of the ruined fortress-city.

Handing his magnoculars over to Barlocke, standing on his left, he pointed at the piers. The Inquisitor looked for a few moments, then handed them back. Pulling the tactical scarf from his face, he stared ahead grimly.

"It appears whatever corrupted the dwellers of Army's Meadow came from the dead Kasr."

"We'll have to notify the regiment," Hyram said.

"For now, sir, let's secure the area, round up the wounded, and tally the dead. We can't do anything about Kasr Fortis now."

###

The town, lacking its own name, had always been synonymous with the cape it sat upon. Like most places on Cadia, it was old, though not proud like the modern Kasrs. Marsh Silas could not understand why those squatters eschewed martial Cadian society. Without the discipline, their consumption by the Ruinous Powers was inevitable. Without the rigors of Kasr life defending them from the Eye of Terror and its millions of infiltrators, they were exposed. Now, they paid for it with their lives.

As he walked back to the Chimeras with Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke, he surveyed the remnants of the town. Every building, ranging from common dwellings to tool sheds, was destroyed. Most had several large, gaping holes in the sides or ceilings. Missiles, grenades, and mortars made short work of them. Soldiers of Bloody Platoon carefully crept among the wreckage, searching for any survivors to exterminate. Occasionally a laspistol or an autogun went off, signaling the end of a wounded cultist who went unnoticed. Among themselves, there were no wounds beyond grazes, burns, and cuts. Although, their losses were a bit heavier; half of the specialists were dead along with the three-man crew of the rearguard Chimera. Among the infantry squads, there were only several dead in total.

Thinking back to his days before Bloody Platoon, Marsh knew they hadn't fared too badly. By the grace of the God-Emperor, they faced raggedy cultists rather than the more organized worshippers, or, Emperor preserve him, the Traitor Legions. Even if one group of Chaos Space Marines had been present, they would have been lucky to have even one squad left. Although, he knew the men of Bloody Platoon would disagree. He wasn't giving them enough credit; they fought against the legions of Chaos before. Of course, the entire regiment had been there, and a firing line, five bodies deep, of Guardsmen, could stop almost anything in its tracks.

"Look, Marsh Silas, we found one alive!" cried Drummer Boy. He and several others, keeping their distance, surrounded a man in priest's garments.

"By the Emperor, even the priest turned," Lieutenant Hyram murmured.

The man had graying brown hair and a scraggly beard. His violet eyes seemed more intense than the average Cadian, although Marsh felt sickened to make the comparison. Before him was no real Cadian, just a weakling seduced by Chaos.

"Kill him and be done with it," Marsh said as he took out his pipe.

"No, we should interrogate him," Lieutenant Hyram countermanded.

"But sir𑁋"

Hyram didn't listen. He walked up to the priest and pointed at him.

"You there, tell me, what happened to the children."

Marsh blinked. He expected a question relating to Kasr Fortis, or how exactly the corruption began, what drove them to tear one another apart, or even the number of cultists that remained before the attack. He hadn't even thought of the children. None were seen among the live cultists, or the dead in the various buildings across town.

First, the priest rose onto his knees. He stared at Hyram for some time. Slowly, he smiled. Then he laughed.

"We heard the voices of Chaos, uplifting us, freeing us. We have little, but always wanted more. More, more, more..." he took a long, wet, breath. "...blood for the Blood God, pleasure for the God of Excess, for Nurgle, the God of Decay and Death, and praise Tzeentch, the Architect..."

"The children, damn your eyes!" Marsh Silas shouted, stepping up beside Hyram.

"Oh, they joined us. All joined. The strong were taken. We gave the weak to the sea."

A chill ran through Marsh. The priest grinned an evil smirk. Clenching his teeth, he turned around. Standing near the Inquisitor was Logue, holding his custom autopistol. He was a bit of a menacing looking chap, with a stubble of blonde beard and violet eyes that lacked any vibrance. He kept his helmet low, which cast a shadow over his narrow face. Nothing ever disturbed Logue's taciturn expression.

After a moment, he nodded at the Shock Trooper. Logue walked forward, passing Marsh. The latter turned to see him push Hyram gently to the side with one hand, raising the stock of his custom autopistol to his shoulder. The smug expression disappeared from the priest's eyes.

"You may kill me, but rest assured, he shall return and strip your souls from your very𑁋"

Logue emptied the entire magazine into the converted priest. The Chaos worshipper let out a brief cry of pain as his body shuddered with the rapid-fire impact, then slumped over. For good measure, Foley approached with his own autopistol, and fired a single shot into the dead man's head. With that, the men dispersed and resumed their duties. Marsh Silas went over to the lieutenant and cleared his throat.

"Better to let some questions go unanswered, sir."

Hyram stared ahead sorrowfully.

"I think I acted like a coward today," he said.

"No one knows how they'll act when the first shot is fired, sir," Marsh said as he lit the tabac leaves in his pipe. He puffed on the pipe and sighed. "May I ask, sir, what you did before you came here?"

"Administrative work. I operated a supply office of clerks and orderlies on Cypra Mundi."

Marsh Silas grunted. Hyram took off his helmet and exhaled sadly. "Who do you think he meant by 'he?' Who was he talking about at the end?"

"Perhaps his dark god, though I would know little of it. I'd rather keep it that way."

"No, not a god," Inquisitor Barlocke said. "He speaks of a man."

"What man?" Hyram asked. The Inquisitor stared ahead rigidly. He seemed lost in thought for a time. Then he blinked himself from his stupor and then nodded graciously.

"Quite sorry, lieutenant, but I must keep such information to myself for the time being." Before either Hyram or Marsh could speak, he continued. "I am glad I chose you to accompany me. You men of Bloody Platoon are fierce fighters, although you certainly make a mess."

"Comes with experience, Inquisitor," Marsh Silas smiled, toasting him with his pipe. "If you want something wiped off the face of the planet, come see us." Inquisitor Barlocke chuckled slightly, then went off to collect his weapons. Turning to Hyram, he patted the officer on the shoulder. "Fear not sir, it is your first day o' combat. More days a-coming, and you'll find your footing."

The sound of engines roared in the distance. Looking down the road, he could see a convoy of Chimeras coming down the road. He chuckled. "And so the men of Second and Third Platoons finally arrive, although they've missed the action Best put on a good appearance all the same, haven't we, sir? Bloody Platoon, fall in!"

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,332


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Marsh Silas stood under a canvas sheet strung up between the side of a Chimera and two hastily erected poles. Beneath were a few crates and a foldable table, making a kind of desk. Behind it sat Commissar Ghent and Captain Murga. Both men had removed their hats and were gazing at the platoon sergeant. Under his arm was his dirtied helmet and his other hand clutched the strap of his M36, slung over his right shoulder. His golden blonde hair was still matted with sweat. He wore a headset common among non-commissioned officers.

It was later in the day. With the entirety of First Company now on the cape, with elements from Second and enginseers from Third, the town was being cleared up. Heavy vehicles were arriving and Valkyries were dropping off supplies. Mangled corpses were being carried to a pit with a huge, raging bonfire within. The bodies of Chaos-worshipers were being collected and tossed in. Burning flesh filled the air as orange flames consumed the bodies. Also being added to the pit were any non-Imperial tomes or objects. Buildings were being demolished and anything that appeared tainted was being disposed of. Priests walked in droves, casting blessings and reciting sermons to ward off Chaotic evils. All the while, engines roared and men shouted orders. Most of Bloody Platoon's men were blessed and were resting at the beach, having earned a rest.

"To let yourself be entranced by a daemonette was shameful, Staff Sergeant," Commissar Ghent said vehemently. "You are a Cadian! Your constitution should be stronger!"

Marsh Silas kept his head bowed respectfully.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"As the platoon sergeant it is your duty to set an example for the men, not show weakness! I ought to have you shot!"

"Commissar!" Captain Murga said sharply. Ghent relented momentarily. Commissars had free reign to punish ranking troopers any way they saw fit, but when it came to commissioned officers they needed greater pretense before taking action. Ghent could not just execute a company commander just for snapping at him and the two served together for some years anyways. "Have you seen preacher Kine?" the former asked.

"Yes, sir. He says I'm free of any taint. It was very thorough; rigid questioning, a medical inspection conducted by Honeycutt, purifying rituals, cleansing hymns, and many a prayer of forgiveness."

"The Emperor was watching over you this day," Captain Murga said, "not everyone comes back. It is good you kept the faith. Praise be to Him, it wasn't for very long. If only for an instant, a man can usually find himself spared of corruption. However that infernal scheme works."

"Can we be sure of that?" Ghent asked aggressively.

"If the priests say he is untainted, then he is untainted," Murga said authoritatively. Commissar Ghent pursed his lips, then sighed with acceptance. "I shall never question the judgement of our holy men."

"Very well. Have you anything else to report, staff sergeant?" Ghent grunted.

"Losses in the ambush, sir," Marsh Silas stated. The officers exchanged a look. "Sir?"

"We were just expecting Lieutenant Hyram to be making this report. Please continue," Captain Murga said with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, sir. We cleared the town, house by house, took care of the barracks, and then the hall. Daemonette sprung on us there, summoned by the turned priest, no doubt. That Inquisitor made quick work o' the monster. What remained of the cultists made for the water but none o' them made it. Towards the end, I used my scope and saw the boats operated by these folks were moored over at old Kasr Fortis."

"The dead Kasr?" said Ghent. "No signs of life have been spotted there for millennia."

"Yes, sir," Marsh said respectfully, "and the priest who turned mentioned someone. A man, who would strip our souls." He paused and looked around. Inquisitor Barlocke was nowhere in sight. "The Inquisitor seemed mighty sobered by the wordage, sir, though he's kept his lips tight on the matter."

Captain Murga tapped the edge of the table with his knuckles. He shook his head and bit what was left of his lip. His exposed teeth were clenched tightly. Then he looked at Marsh with his one good eye.

"How did Bloody Platoon fare?"

"Very well, sir. Those cultists were a poor excuse compared to some we've fought. Most don't run but these ones did. But we did lose a few." Marsh reached into one of his pouches and procured a small slip of paper. His brow furrowed over it. "I, uh, jotted down what the Doc...er, Sergeant Honeycutt, tallied. He helped me with it." He handed it over to Captain Murga. The note read:

_2 Squad _𑁋 _1 __ded__ dead_

_3 Squad _𑁋 _2 dead_

_Speshals__ Specials _𑁋 _6 dead_

_Sergeant_

_Staf__ Staff^__Sargant__Marsh__ Silas Cross_

Commissar Ghent snorted. Captain Murga silenced him with a harsh glare, then smiled.

"Thank you, Marsh Silas."

Marsh shifted on his feet, looking down.

"Platoon stands at fifty men, not including the Inquisitor. I took the liberty of folding the remaining specialists into one squad. By the grace of the God-Emperor, most o' the experts survived. Bullard, Derryhouse, Yoxall, and Tatum; Hitch and Sergeant Stainthorpe made it too. He's in charge."

The Captain peered at the note for a few moments, then tucked it into his shirt pocket. He smiled kindly. Marsh nodded. "Begging your pardon sir, I don't mean to sound brash-like, but the men are wondering about the Inquisitor. They're hoping I ask some questions and bring answers back for them."

Asking questions wasn't always well-received among the officer corps, or the Commissariat for matter. Ghent stiffened indignantly; it was innate for a Commissar to bristle at the sound of a mere question or request. But another glance from Murga reminded him of the kind of men serving with them. Veterans were assets, not to be readily punished or executed. Getting one's bearings was far different from insubordination. After their silent decision, the Captain and the Commissar both nodded.

"Field them."

"Will the Inquisitor be staying with us now that the present threat of heresy here has been destroyed, or are we still under his command? What should we make of the dead Kasr, sir? Are we making the attack?"

Murga laughed, then tapped Commissar Ghent with his knuckles.

"See what makes this man the prime example of a Guardsman? Comes out of an ambush the victor, survives the wiles of a daemonette, and is already spoiling for another fight. Ha!" He cleared his throat, resuming his indifferent expression. "Well, I'm afraid I can't tell you much. All I know is what the Inquisitor told me, which is ultimately nothing. He's currently communicating with his superiors and our general orders from command still stand: support the Inquisitor until he relieves us. Until I am otherwise informed, I can't tell you our𑁋_his_𑁋plans. Fortis, whether or not it is serving as a haven for heretics or Chaos-worshipers, will have to wait. He may say we have to go, he may not." Murga shook his head. "Having an Inquisitor among us is unsettling. It's only by the grace of the God-Emperor that we haven't been suspected of some foul treachery we've no part in."

"The Emperor protects," Commissar Ghent murmured. "I've seen several of his like before and each was more sinister than the last. What do you make of him, Marsh Silas?"

"Beggin' the Commissar's pardon, he strikes me more strange than anything else." He recalled the brief exchange of words they had on the road up to the hall. Not to mention out of all the discord around them, he was the one who came forth and defended Marsh from the daemonette. Nobody spun tales of heroism or selflessness regarding the Ordo Hereticus.

Captain Murga stood up, folding his hands behind his back.

"There's nothing we can do about it. No matter our misgivings, we are the Imperial Guard, and we will obey every order with diligence and vigor. It is our sacred duty as servants of the God-Emperor."

Marsh was hesitant to bring up his next item of concern. As the platoon sergeant, having the most experience in the unit, it was his duty to monitor the condition of the men. That also included the new platoon leader. Hyram was down at the beach, going over his dataslate instead of standing where Marsh was now. There was no malice in him, nor a disregard for duty. He just seemed oblivious as to what was expected of him. All of the sergeants in the platoon, veteran squad leaders themselves, all quietly begged Marsh Silas to report the new lieutenant and stir Murga's wrath. If he had just been with Captain Murga, he would state his worries plainly. With Commissar Ghent present, the only man in the entire regiment Marsh Silas was unsettled by besides First Sergeant Hayhurst, he was reluctant to bring it up. Passing off his concern as the anxiety of the non-commissioned officers risked an interpretation of munity. Mutineers were heretics. Heretics were summarily executed. By association, he, the messenger could be thrown together with them. Or if he declared the intentions were entirely his own, then he himself could be labeled as disrespectful to the commanding officer and be punished for it.

He'd rather receive punishment than see his comrades suffer for their natural disquiet, which brewed from experience rather than disloyalty. Hopefully, Commissar Ghent would understand that. What made him dangerous as a Commissar was not the very uniform itself; it was his unpredictability. Despite often granting a certain level of autonomy to Bloody Platoon by respecting their veteran status, he was not above flogging, threats, or field executions. Third Platoon often received this side of him, as they were usually made up of the fresher bodies coming out of the Youth Armies. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself.

"Oh, do you mind telling us of the lieutenant's performance during the mission?" Commissar Ghent asked. Marsh blinked, surprised.

"Give us your honest opinion, son," Murga added.

Now he was faced with a new dilemma. If he told them how Hyram made no tactical decisions whatsoever during the whole operation, to the point of becoming nearly unhinged as the bullets began flying, he'd certainly face punishment. Despite only being with the platoon for a few days, he already earned their contempt for bumbling around. His previous office duty was the likely culprit. Marsh couldn't bring himself to despise the man because of his inexperience. Throwing inexperienced men into the fray usually resulted in mountains of bodies; he'd seen that in the Whiteshields. Doing so didn't weed out the weak from the hackers, it just created survivors. Applying the same concept to one man was going to get him killed. Despite his extreme lack of confidence in Hyram, he didn't want to see him suffer either.

"He did well enough for anyone receiving their first taste o' combat. Scrambled for a moment, then found his feet."

"First taste? Did this man not progress through the Whiteshields?" Ghent asked, bemused.

"I'm told he's the son of a noble Cadian family. Born here but grew up elsewhere because of his parents' posting. His commission was purchased and approved because of his excellent academic records," Murga explained, punctuating himself with a dismissive grunt.

"Yes sir," Marsh said, "He was some kind of clerk on Cypra Mundi."

"Ah, yes. Men who can read and write are better suited for tasks other than fighting and dying," Ghent mused smugly. Marsh pursed his lips and looked down at his boots for a moment. Murga shot another disapproving glare in the Commissar's direction.

"Undoubtedly, his family had something to do with him avoiding combat all this time."

Many noble families had long, distinguished records of service, especially on Cadia. Such clans produced excellent soldiers, brilliant tacticians, calculating planners, and selfless heroes. Just as many, however, utilized the complex bureaucracy of the Imperium to exempt themselves. Even on Cadia𑁋a world that mandated military service𑁋was not free from bureaucratic loopholes. Of course, not every family was successful and paid the consequences. Ones that were off-world, like Lieutenant Hyram's, had a better chance. Obviously, they succeeded.

Folding his arms across his chest and pacing a little, Murga shook his head. "And it's because of his noble ties that we can't just get rid of him due to my off-feeling." Marsh understood. Like him, the Captain believed Lieutenant Hyram was a disaster waiting to happen. Never having gone into combat, relying on his basic and officer's training that were by now rusty, one misstep could get the entire platoon massacred. What Inquisitor Barlocke said came to mind, and Marsh certainly hoped that he was right. "I'd rather it didn't take some grevious incident involving Bloody Platoon to get the man transferred or, better yet, shot. Officers like that are no good to anybody except desk-men."

"Maybe he'll do us a favor and arrive drunk on duty," Commissar Ghent said. "Then the matter will be solved." He patted his holster. Marsh shifted on his feet.

"Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon. But if he's got so little combat experience, how'd he end up leading the most veteran platoon in the company?"

"Maybe he pissed somebody off at his original post and was sent out here. Maybe his name was drawn from a hat. Or maybe he found his balls and requested a transfer to the front. Who can say? The officers above me don't have to give me a reason or excuse, they just dump things on us and hope the problems will sort themselves out. Bureaucracy at its finest. Nobles play the bureaucrat, civilians plug their ears and cover their eyes, and we soldiers stand knee-deep in blood, mud, and shit. Marsh Silas, stay a sergeant, you'll be much happier that way."

Marsh nodded. Murga sighed and sat back down, shaking his head. "Well, we must use the tools we have. Help him as best you can, for Bloody Platoon's sake. As far as I'm concerned, you're all they've got."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Marsh clicked his heels together, saluted, and departed.

###

As he marched towards the beach, Marsh Silas breathed a sigh of relief. A bitter taste was left in his mouth by the Commissar, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Ghent was better than most; he gave Bloody Platoon breathing room, seeing as they were the first platoon of the first company. Veterans could be trusted and relied upon. Still, he had a habit of looking down his long nose at the common soldiers. Marsh Silas did his best not to hold a grudge.

Most of the men from the other platoons and companies were out and about. When they spied him, they offered a salute or other sign of respect. Marsh Silas memorized from the Uplifting Primer that it was the duty of a Guardsmen to always salute his superiors. But as far as he was concerned, he was just another trooper.

Despite being ladened with his gear, he possessed a gentle sort of stoop in his broad shoulders. The weight of his rucksack didn't bother him in the slightest. On the left side of the backpack was the standard issue gas mask that fit snugly into his tri-dome pattern helmet. Although highly customizable, he kept his simple. It came with a polarized orange visor for sealed eye protection; putting it on was as simple as snapping it into place. When he didn't have to fight in harsher environments, he would wear the orange polarized goggles he kept in a small pack on the back of his helmet, with the black strap above the Aquila. By covering the symbol he would be punished. Tucking his headset back down around his neck, he put his helmet back on.

Also hanging on by its own synthetic cord was a pair of magnoculars. While such a device came in many variations, this was standard issue; it possessed thermal and night vision, as well as variable zoom up to several kilometers. His leather brown webbing was covered with an assortment of olive, tan, and brown pouches; clips for his autopistol, charge packs, and more. One hand rested on the pommel of his Munitorum power sword, in its brown sheath on his left hip.

Tall, broad, strong, he might have appeared a curious sight due to his friendly, crooked smile, the kind disposition of his square face, or the affable expression in his otherwise piercing violet eyes. Perhaps the most notable trait of his person was the moderately sized kit bag on a long strap thrown over his right shoulder. It was essentially a standard issue satchel, with no distinctive markings, a bit rough on the edges from many years of use. Yet all who knew Marsh Silas also knew of his famous kit bag, filled with all manner of useful items. Where he got such belongings, no one could exactly be sure. It was rare to see him put anything in the bag. Nevertheless, it always rattled with extra grooming kits, spare rations, bootlaces, surplus ammunition, a couple grenades of varying types, a reserve canteen; whatever somebody needed, he would produce from his kit bag.

Coming down to the beach, he spotted the men of Bloody Platoon. They were sitting in the sand, some checking their wargear. Others looked out across the channel. Some chatted amongst themselves. Everyone was sitting, save for Corporal Tatum, burning down the last of the beach huts. Nobody seemed to mind the fires. Close by, Drummer Boy was using a palm-sized mirror to look at himself as he combed his hair back. It was missing many of its teeth and was making the task far more challenging than it needed to be, causing him to grumble.

Marsh knelt down beside him, reached into his kit bag, rummaged somewhat, and produced a comb.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Found it."

"Found it, sure," Drummer Boy laughed. He tossed the other comb away. "Thank you, Marsh Silas."

Marsh patted him on the shoulder. With an announcement, the sergeants closed in on him. There was Holmwood, of First Squad, a barrel-chested fellow with strong features from head to toe. Of Second Squad, Mottershead was a bit more average, with cautious eyes and an alert sense about him, always turning his head, looking, looking, looking for something. Then there was Queshire of Third Squad; chatty, lanky, and a slightly laid back when compared to other NCO's. Also there was Stainthorpe, effectively in charge of the special weapons experts. He had dark violet eyes and a bionic arm. Then there was Walmsley Major and Foster of the two heavy weapons squads. Despite being quite a muscled, seemingly domineering man, due to his lugging and towing around the lascannon of the platoon, Foster was rather quiet. Walmsley Major was his opposite; still well built but ultimately more slender, with a short beard, easygoing eyes and a constant smile. He operated one of the two Heavy Bolters with his younger brother, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor.

They all had questions and Marsh raised his hand to silence them. He relayed what the Captain said, and the others all groaned with displeasure.

"But Marsh, he's going to get us killed," Mottershead hissed.

"He hardly did a thing even before they ambushed us," Holmswood grunted.

"I hope you're not being soft on him just because he pulled you away from that daemonette," Queshire said, prodding him in the chest. Marsh swatted his hand away casually.

"I can't believe you didn't tell the CO everything that happened," Stainthorpe grumbled. "This is the one time we actually _want _the Commissar to pop somebody."

"He can't hack it, Marsh," Walmsley Major said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Ain't fit for the Militarum," Foster put in.

Marsh Silas raised his hand, silencing them. He then pointed at the group, waving his hand back and forth at the semicircle in front of him.

"Listen up, you gunmen. There is nothing to be done about him. Orders are orders, that's final." He straightened up. "And remember, you were all boys once. Fresh and green, yes you were. Digging foxholes for dear life, firing back at nothing, dropping at the sound of friendly shells going by overhead. You were all like him once. Don't forget that."

The sergeants stiffened and lowered their gaze. Yes, the memories came back, bitter and frightening. Mottershead, who at the age of fifteen was so frightened by enemy gunfire that he had dropped to dig a foxhole with his bare hands. During his first engagement, the imposing Holmswood pissed himself𑁋it was quite common even among veterans. Walmsley Major, amicable and agreeable, was still reminded of a field of blood that had once been his comrades. Today his meat had to be cooked dry, as even a little bit of red made him sick to his stomach. Marsh Silas didn't like to discipline the men in such a way, even if it was comparably gentle to more common methods. But they were soldiers, combat leaders, and if they started to gripe, it created a bad atmosphere for the troopers. An inexperienced officer and an Inquisitor gazing down at them was trouble enough.

After a few moments, the men's agitation passed..

"Sorry, Marsh Silas."

"Don't be sorry, men." Marsh smiled and put one hand on Walmsley Major's shoulder and another on Queshire's. "I know you're rattled, but we'll be fine. Do your jobs and look after each other.

This made the men smile. Friendly handshakes and salutes were exchanged and they returned to their squads. Satisfied, Mash breathed in the sea air; it was a brief yet welcome change over the stench of burning flesh up in the town. Looking over Bloody Platoon, he spotted Lieutenant Hyram sitting close to the waterline. His knees were drawn up close to his chest and his helmet was off. Even his dataslate was set aside, sitting in the bowl of his helmet. He seemed lost in thought.

Marsh Silas walked over to him. "Mind if I join you, sir?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, Staff Sergeant."

Taking off his sword scabbard, then his rucksack, he sat down with a loud, exaggerated sigh. He leaned back against his heavy pack and kept his legs outstretched, nearly so that the foam from gentle breakers was nearly touching his boot heels. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed and his face turned up towards the sun. Clouds from earlier were broken up, finally allowing the sun to shine. It was warm. After some time, he opened one eye and glanced at the officer. Hyram seemed distant and sorrowful. Marsh sat up a bit and took out his pipe, added the tabac leaves, struck a match on his chest plate, lit the crushed leaves, and began puffing away. He flicked the match into the water just as a small breaker came upon the shore.

After a few puffs, he held it out to the officer. Hyram took a look at it, lingered a moment, then shook his head. Not once had he ever met a man who was willing to turn down a free smoke, whether it be from pipe, stub, or lho-stick. Marsh withdrew it and continued to smoke. Nodding his head forward a little, Marsh hummed a crass tune boys used to sing on their way home. With the sun on his face, pipe just in front of his lips, and a song in his heart, he couldn't help but let a few words escape him:

"_Scale the Kasr's tower,_

_To taste the maiden's flower, _

_Hope it isn't sour!"_

Marsh wondered if the Lieutenant had heard it, hoping he would join in. But Hyram didn't, continuing to look off into the sea. "Well uh, thanks for helping me there earlier, Lieutenant."

"I didn't do anything but help you to your feet." He sighed. "I didn't do much of anything today."

Hyram sighed unhappily. Marsh shrugged.

"During my last year in the Youth Army, I see this boy. He's just got in, just as I'm about to get out. I'm eighteen, he's fourteen. We go into action against a Chaos warband. Black Legion, the old enemy. Whole platoons gettin' wiped out by single Traitor Marines, unholy daemons and war machines were tearing across the field. I'm waist deep in a water-filled trench, firing my M36 as fast as I can. A wave of cultists come at us, deformed, skeletal-like, horns comin' outta their skulls. Then I see the boy, standing there with tears in his eyes. He's lookin' out at everything that Chaos can belch. I watched his eyes, violet same as mine, shatter. They looked like broken glass. He reaches into his holster, pulls out his laspistol, puts the his mouth, and pulls the trigger."

Hyram was staring at him, eyes wide with horror. Marsh Silas looked at him. "What you got was just a taste. There's worse to come. Always is. But if you can hack it against these cock-suckin' cultists...begging the Lieutenant's pardon...you'll be alright."

A noble family Hyram hailed from, although he did not look like he did. True to his previous position, he appeared a bookish type; a very stark contrast to the thundering sons and daughters of heroes long gone. Like most Cadians, he was on the tall side although not as big as the average man. Perhaps he belonged then; Bloody Platoon was made up of so many Cadian misfits they were the definition of rag-tag. Maybe he would fit right in. Marsh directed his attention back to the sea. Some of the cultists who attempted to swim offshore, torn to shreds by bullets or lasbolts, were being swept back by the waves. One ragged, waterlogged body was left on the sand by a larger breaker, and could not be dragged away by the smaller ones following it. One of the men, a grenadier named Fleming, took up a handful of pebbles from the sand and began tossing them at the body. Looking closer, Marsh could see that the dead cultist's mouth was wide open, and Fleming was trying to see how many pebbles he could throw into it.

Marsh watched for a little while, then he noticed the Lieutenant looking in the same direction.

"Sergeant, stop that man, if you please."

"Right away, sir." Marsh got to his feet and went over to Fleming. The grenadier was a stout man, though his narrow face was quite gnarled from so many wounds. One bionic plate came horizontally under his left eye and another, smaller version was on his right cheek. Some of his nose was missing. Marsh knelt beside him. "What're you doing there?"

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"Nothin'."

"Why don't you quit doing nothin'?"

"How can I quit if I'm doing nothin'?"

"Because the lieutenant says so and I says so. Come now, friend." Fleming frowned, then dropped all the pebbles from his hand. Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. He understood. Hailing from Third Squad, Fleming lost his two closest friends that day: Giffard and Lum. The trio were extremely close, right up from Bloody Platoon's formation a few years back. Just like that, Giffard caught a slug right between the shoulder blades and the main artery in Lum's leg was severed. He bled to death before Honeycutt or the combat medics could get to him. Countless firefights, missions, regimental operations, and invasions𑁋the two met their ends on a chilly cape hardly anyone knew about. Such was the fate of Guardsmen. All men and women in their capacity knew as much; that didn't mean it was less of a bitter pill to swallow.

Fleming nodded and Marsh ran his hand up and down the back of his head. Wordlessly, Marsh Silas went over to the body, sat it up, and threw it over his shoulders. Leaving the body there would just bother the men. Besides, it was tainted. Better to burn it than let it lie.

"You want that I should help you, Marsh Silas?" Fleming asked.

"I'll manage," said the platoon sergeant with a wink as he worked his way back up the path. The malnourished cultist wasn't that heavy anyways, waterlogged or not. Marsh Silas was a strong man. At around eighty standard kilograms of lean muscle, he was a, 'fine specimen of a man,' in the words of their sawbones, Sergeant Honeycutt.

At the top of the path, he came face to face with a pair black boots. Slowly he looked up to see Inquisitor Barlocke, tall and still. He stared down at Marsh with dark brown eyes that matched the pigment of his hair. An Inquisitorial Rosette, bone-white with black fringes and a golden skull in the center, hung from his neck. Unsure of what to say, Marsh Silas, with one hand braced on the ground, looked back. Oddly enough, he was more surprised than intimidated. Only several occasions came to mind when he saw an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. By all accounts, they were the scariest bunch of the lot. Sinister, plotting, prying, frighteningly vigilant. Yes, their order worked for the benefit of the Imperium, Marsh Silas knew this. But any old hand knew that some Inquisitors found heresy where there was none. Nobody could question them save for other Inquisitors.

Yet he didn't feel such an aura from Barlocke. The man was reserved, yes, strange, of course, and definitely a skillful killer𑁋he saw that firsthand. Suspicion did not fill his eyes. Malice did not cling to his features. Rather than inspire fear, he presented mystery and awe.

"Let me help you," the Inquisitor said. Silently, Marsh shifted the corpse from his shoulders. Barlocke took it under the arms while Marsh held it by its legs. Together they made their way through town. Frankly, it would have been easier to do it by himself but Marsh wasn't about to refuse an Inquisitor. Everyone they passed took a moment to gawk before returning to their business. Some whispered or made subtle motions to their compatriots.

On the other side of the ruined town, they came to the great pit and tossed the body in. A few men stood nearby, watching the bodies burn. From his book, a priest chanted and spoke in High Gothic.

Marsh wiped his hands together. He was about to offer his thanks when Barlocke stepped closer. "Marsh Silas. Such a strange name."

"When I made corporal, everyone thought I was hard on them," Marsh explained after a moment. "They called me Little Marshal."

"To mock you?"

"Crack enough skulls on furlough and keep the Commissar from blowing people's heads off tends to stop mockery, Inquisitor. When they realized I was just trying to keep them alive rather than make'em miserable, they started calling me Marshal Silas. Now these gunmen just shorten it," He chuckled. "I doubt anyone remembers mine-own last name by now."

Marsh hadn't noticed the two were now walking back towards the cliff, rather than the beach. They went around the hall, rather than through it; some enginseers were getting ready to bring it down. Eventually, they stopped at the edge of the cliff. Their eyes were drawn to the dead Kasr, Fortis, with its grayed, sad, hollowed spires. A fog bang was rolling in from the north, enveloping it like the way a wolf wrapped its jaws around a prey.

Barlocke eyed Fortis with interest. "Well, _Marsh Silas_, I saw you went up to the company commander. No doubt they questioned you about the daemonette."

"That they did, Inquisitor,," Marsh said in a low tone. "Foolish of me, sir."

"Even the strongest can't withstand their aura. We were lucky it chose not to disguise itself. If it had, then you would most certainly have turned rather than suffer from a brief entrancement. Its true form can only grip the mind so much." Barlocke put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Fear not, you have no corruption in you, I can vouch for that personally. Although you may strive to steel yourself far better in the future."

"Yes, Inquisitor."

"That's settled then. Now, do you think you can tell me about this dead Kasr across the channel?

It was a somber tale, Marsh explained, and became folklore over the millennia. Kasr Fortis was built several millennia ago in the fashion of metropolises on Holy Terria. Long, wide, open boulevards with sprawling, verdant gardens and glittering, grand architecture ranging from cathedrals to statues of the God-Emperor. However, its fate met the same of other pre-Kaser architecture. Prior to the Second Black Crusade, a massive warband of Chaos descended on the planet, choosing Fortis as its first target. Orbital bombardments sent many skyscrapers toppling into massive heaps of rubble. Those that didn't fall became hollowed out shells. Daemonic war machines tore through the city, casting their blasphemous energy in every direction. Droves of civilians were slaughtered or lost their minds. Open gardens and streets became killing fields filled with the bodies of Guardsmen and civilians. Entire buildings that collapsed formed tunnels and passages of twisted metal and crumbling rockcrete. Fighting raged in the sewers and underground transportation systems all the way up to the top floors of the skyscrapers. Traitor Space Marines stomped through the streets, gunning down scores of brave Guardsmen. In the end, they were defeated and the Cadian Shock Troopers stood strong, albeit at a terrible cost. One of the many mistakes learned by the people of Cadia.

Barlocke took this information in stride, then asked what people thought of it. Upon seeing Marsh's confused expression, he asked what the common citizen made of it currently, not its history. To that, Marsh said almost every Cadian knew of Kasr Fortis. Other than its destruction, serving as one of the numerous examples of previous, deficient Kasr architecture, it was a ghost story. Parents tucking their children in at night or Commissars at the bunk down hour told of monster-men who would come out at night, cross the channel on little rafts, and sneak into homes to steal away kids who didn't adhere to the Imperial Creed. Utter nonsense, seeing as nobody went to or came from Kasr Fortis since it was destroyed. Other legends held it was a cover for a secret test facility where biological horrors were created. Some said that a tithed regiment from the battle were left behind and were now zombies or ghosts, still roaming the streets and wreckage. More realistic stories related it was used simply as a toxic-warfare testing ground for Kasrkin, although in all his years he never heard anyone confirm the tale.

This seemed to catch the Inquisitor's attention. Marsh explained that a large foundry existed in the center of the city. Cadia received substantial amounts of wargear and material from other worlds but it possessed a high degree of self-sufficiency. In its day, Fortis produced an array of chemical, biological, and conventional ammunition for heavy artillery. When the Battle of Kasr Fortis occurred, the foundry was damaged. How, nobody was aware of how it ruptured.. Some stated sabotage, others cited the orbital bombardment. Some suggested the facility was scuttled purposely to avoid its capture by the enemy. In any case, it began leaking virulent fumes that killed anyone not wearing a gas mask or rebreather. Many on both sides died as the toxic cloud filled the majority of the Kasr. Only on the outskirts, near the piers, or some underground bastions could individuals breathe clean air. Luckily, the poison never left the island Kasr. Priests claimed it was an act of the God-Emperor, preventing the fumes from touching the soil of proud Cadian sons and daughters. This made Marsh smile; he believed the God-Emperor was always watching them, although anyone who understood the weather knew it was far enough away the winds couldn't carry the gas.

Barlocke seemed transfixed by the tale. Rigidly, he observed Fortis. "Does the foundry still function?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"No one knows, or you've never heard?"

"Honestly, sir, I try not to ask too many questions if I can help it. When I do, I play it _real _safe."

"Like earlier?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"Nothing. I shouldn't be surprised, considering." As Marsh wondered what he was 'considering,' the Inquisitor studied it for a few more moments. Then his attention drew to Marsh Silas again. "Whether they be corrupted by Chaos or not, I have no doubt that heretics dwell there. If that foundry still runs, it represents a threat to all controlled sectors of Cadia. And it is where my target hides."

Marsh raised an eyebrow. Barlocke smiled a little. "The man the corrupted priest spoke of is a rogue psyker, one I have been hunting for some time. He has plagued Cadia's commanders for a year, yet there is little intelligence regarding him. I've had little evidence to go on here... But I know him, I know his patterns; he utilizes other heretics and Chaos worshipers as shields for his movement and activities. Considering an infestation may dwell across the channel and Army's Meadow provided an extension for his plots, he may very well be there."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,200


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Slowly, the platoon sergeant looked over at Fortis with apprehension. In that instant, he knew they would be going over there for sure. All eagerness or bravado Captain Murga perceived earlier disappeared. Kasr Fortis had just evolved from a dead ruin to an imposing sanctum, bristling with arms, inhabited by renegades, heretics, and followers of Chaos. Although he would never admit as such, Marsh Silas was braver than most. His nerves were steeled through training, experience, and faith. Brave enough to risk himself in combat. Brave enough to rescue a wounded comrade. Brave, but not foolish. Fools didn't go scrambling across a channel, catapulting themselves against what could very well be a hardened enemy stronghold. There was hardly any intelligence around the dead Kasr. Nobody had gone there since it was evacuated. It could very well be a holdfast for Chaos cults of all kinds. If the enemy was there, it was unknowable, and that chilled him to the bones.

A heavy hand on his shoulder broke his thoughts. Marsh looked up at Barlocke, who smiled at him.

"You must think me mad."

"No, Inquisitor. What you say adds up to me. If we have to go over there and root'em out, I'll go. It's just..." Marsh chewed his bottom lip.

"You are afraid."

"No, sir," Marsh lied. He felt ill at ease now. Admitting fear to anyone above a ranker was asking for a Bolt-pistol shoved in one's own face, or worse. Men who shut down in their bunks, refusing to go on another patrol, were dragged outside. Depending on the Commissar, that man would be flogged, shot, or worse. Those who broke in the field𑁋shot. Some Commissars were known for shooting Guardsmen just for shedding tears. But there were some punishments an officer could inflict which made men wish for a quick death.

"Yes, you are," Barlocke said, his tone even. "Tell me why."

"But I'm not afraid. I'm a Guardsman. A Cadian! No matter the order, I will follow it, and𑁋"

"Do not fill my ears with such _useless _rhetoric," the Inquisitor said, slowly, sternly. His grip tightened yet he smiled all the same. "Truth, now."

Marsh closed his eyes momentarily. He swallowed, hard. Then he looked Barlocke in the eye.

"I don't want to plunge into that dead place without..." he struggled to find the right words. "...understanding what's waiting for me."

Barlocke's smile departed. Marsh braced for the worst.

"To meet something without understanding is dangerous, not just to the body, but to the mind and the soul. Assailing an entity we do not know can lead to our own destruction. Refusing to rise above the rigid conceptions of our Imperium led to regiments being carelessly thrown upon the shores, citizens being sacrificed by those with power, and far worse." Barlocke placed his other hand on Marsh's shoulder. "You are right, Marsh Silas. To go in blind would harm our mission, rather than aid it. Knowing our enemy would lead to his destruction. Thus we must observe him, gather clues, dismantle his operation piece by piece, and strike when he is vulnerable."

"You don't seem like other Inquisitors," was all Marsh managed to say. Barlocke chuckled, then leaned down so they were nearly nose to nose.

"You're right," He said in a low voice, then stepped away from him, breathing in the sea air as he looked back at Kasr Fortis. "I heard you Cadians were the best shots and the most disciplined soldiers in the Imperium. I find with you that is very true, and more." He didn't elaborate on that point, much to Marsh's confusion. "Army's Meadow will finally earn its name. I have spoken with your regimental commander and his superiors; this cape will be fortified. The town shall be razed and replaced with your new base. Your mighty guns will be brought to bear, and the means to assault Kasr Fortis will be brought _here._"

###

The next fortnight was spent clearing away the fine work of Bloody Platoon and replacing it with a full-fledged base. No one knew exactly what words Inquisitor Barlocke exchanged with Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, or with Cadian High Command, but he managed to impart the strategic importance of Army's Meadow to the brass. Instead of a quick evacuation and demolition plan, it was going to serve as a bulwark against invasion and the unknown belligerents inside Kasr Fortis. CHC re-designated the sector as Fortis𑁋scuttlebut relayed none of the planners enjoyed the idea of calling it Meadow Sector despite the cape being the most important landmark in the immediate area. To bolster the small sector's defenses, a company of Leman Russ main battle tanks with supporting infantry as well as a company of Basilisk artillery were dispatched from other regiments. Two Valkyrie squadrons from the 3rd Imperial Navy Tactical Wing were joining them as well.

Even on the fourteenth day, transports continued to ascend and descend, dropping off materials and supplies. Enginseers, servitors, and diggers swarmed over the cleared grounds; with the scattered buildings gone, it seemed rather spacious for a time. Where the town center was, the regimental command center was built. It was a long, sizable structure, with an imposing control tower on one end and a large radar array in the center. Infantry barracks were placed at the edge of the beach, interconnected by trenches lined with barbed wire and sandbags. Each octagonal-shaped barracks possessed six variantly-sized horizontal firing ports for lasguns, plasma guns, and Heavy Bolters. Reinforced bastions and towers, bristling with heavy weapons, dotted the base. Inside several tactica control centers, the upper echelon of the regiment developed operational plans. Motor pools housed their Chimeras and the company of Leman Russ tanks. The Basilisks wouldn't be showing up until tomorrow. A field hospital was established, thanks to the efforts of the Order Reticent of the Order Hospitallers. Many Orders Hospitallers were on Cadia, due to the ever constant threat and attacks out of the Eye of Terror. Having them present in the new base gladdened the men.

Beneath it all, tunnels were dug. Every building, from the motor pools and bastions to the barracks and regimental command, were now connected by the tunnels. Such was the ingenuity of the Imperial Guard. Wargear, ammunition, and men could transfer between each building without fear of being caught in the open. Having the underground routes available always bolstered a Guardsman's spirits. However, the diggers were ashen-faced when the project was finished. While they didn't elaborate, it was clear they found the remainder of the missing citizens there. All the same, more living space was acquired thanks to the tunnels. They even opened up into the trenches.

Despite occupying only the end of the cape, it was a formidable installation, especially with the entire regiment assembled. With the addition of the Leman Russ company and its supporting infantry, there were now over two thousand men under the command of Inquisitor Barlocke and Colonel Isaev. Army's Meadow was now an adamantium knuckle jutting out into the sea. The beaches were lined with mines, barbed wire, tank traps, dragon's teeth, and automated turret emplacements. Efforts were being renewed to remove the flowers that seemed to sprout overnight on either side of the single lane running through the cape. Once the flowers were cleared, the colonel said, the entire island would become one huge base. Most were doubtful of such a prospect.

Where the hall once stood, a lone infantry barracks was placed. The slope leading up to it was fortified with sandbags, barbed wire entanglements, and dugouts. Around it were trenches and sandbags, but just before the edge of the cliff was a small observation post covered with mesh netting. Standing to the side of it, Marsh Silas observed Kasr Fortis through his magnoculars. He had shed his flak armor and overcoat, and was wearing standard tan fatigues. Over his shirt he wore a tan sweater, with the suspenders from his trousers over it. Between his lips he clutched his pipe. A thin stream of gray smoke drifted up from the bowl.

"We should have more men here," Marsh grunted.

"At this point they couldn't," Lieutenant Hyram said. He looked down into the observation post. The junior officer was sitting back from the parapet, tapping notes into his dataslate."If another regiment was brought in, we'd be overcrowd. Sanitation would suffer and disease would rise." It was the most soldierly, intelligent point the lieutenant made in the time he was with Bloody Platoon.

"Quite right, sir."

Marsh let his magnoculars hang from his neck once more and looked at the channel. It was an hour before dusk, and the channel tide dropped entirely. From the shore of Army's Meadow all the way to Kasr Fortis, all fourteen kilometers, the seafloor was exposed. Swathes of seagrass covered moist, gray sand like clumps of moss. Dips and craters created small pools and puddles. A man could walk from their little cape all the way to Kasr Fortis. The sun, now a burning orange orb in the sky, cast a warm glow over the cape. He breathed in the salty air and felt refreshed. Those who did not hail from Cadia heard of the constant state of war, the carnage, the losses. It was the bulwark of the Imperium. A native couldn't help but feel pride at such a title. But only Cadians themselves would be able to enjoy the beauty that managed to appear when the guns fell silent.

"Queer thing." Marsh turned to his right. Inquisitor Barlocke was looking out over the channel as well. "I've never seen the tide draw so far."

"Tides are a strange thing on Cadia," Marsh explained. "Some bays and channels like these look very deep, but they're rather shallow, which is why they drain at low tide." Marsh ran a hand through his golden blonde hair and flashed his crooked smile as he looked back at the channel. "Every day, one hour after dawn, one hour before dusk, the channel drains."

Inquisitor Barlocke stepped closer to him. Politely, Marsh offered him the mangoculars. He figured the Inquisitor would want to gaze at the piers of Kasr Fortis. When the tide was high, the pier and the docks seemed just above the waterline. Low tide exposed its entirety. Instead of ferrocrete, the entire dock system was built of wood. How it wasn't incinerated back during the Kasr's destruction he couldn't guess. It was easy to see many hasty or ramshackle supports had been added to it over the years, reinforcing the clear assumption _someone _was over there. Like dark bones, they stretched out over the sand, sagging in some parts.

Heretics they were, but they were smart enough to keep what strategic advantages they owned intact, Marsh Silas thought to himself. He glanced at the Inquisitor, knowing it was another problem they would have to deal with.

What few boats rested in the sand below the piers were all varied in size with primitive motors𑁋some of them were just a step above rowboats. Many were leaning to one side, their rusty keels keeping them from rolling over complete. Hopefully when the tide came in, and with the God-Emperor's blessing, they would be swamped. That would make the job easier, though Marsh was prepared for a difficult task all the same. Oddly enough, what the Inquisitor said to him two weeks ago resonated and gave him confidence.

"Is that seaweed edible?" Inquisitor Barlocke asked.

"Hm? Oh, yes, yes sir, it is."

"Are you certain?"

"Back where I was born, Kasr Polaris that is, we was seated on a bay. When the tide ran out, like here, we'd go out to gather some. You had to go far out, see, because if you picked too close to the pier you'd get mighty sick from the foundry runoff. Go out beyond the bay, it was fresh stuff. Clean it, dry it, and crumble it in soups or rice dishes, that sort of thing." Marsh smiled, remembering the smell of cooking meat, rice, and vegetables in the kitchen after their little ramble out into the exposed bay. After lessons, his mother would take him by the hand and they would walk out into the wet sand together. They kept half of what they collectd and donated the rest to the logistical corp outpost on their block. Kasr Polaris wasn't in one of the more war-torn sectors, at least when he was a child, so it was safe enough. Bitterly, he recalled how his father never joined them on their little expeditions.

Inquisitor Barlocke made an intrigued sound. Marsh looked at him.

"Suppose, then, if I decided to go out there and collect some. Might make a fine addition to our dinner."

"Our?" Marsh echoed. Barlocke nodded over their shoulder. Turning around, he could see his dugout mates all peering at them from the entrance to their quarters underneath the defensive portion of the barracks. Among the small crowd in tan fatigues were the Walmsley brothers, Vox-caster Drummer Boy, Arnold Yoxall the demolitions expert, as well as shotgunner Foley and gun nut Logue. As soon as they saw Marsh's scowl they sheepishly ducked back inside.

Sighing, he nodded. With a kind smile, Barlocke departed for the beach. Once he was gone, Drummer Boy appeared beside Marsh.

"Did the Inquisitor just invite himself to supper?" Marsh nodded. "By the Emperor, I don't think I've ever seen one like him. I thought they were supposed to be cold as stones and more cruel than a Commissar."

"Keep your voice down," Marsh said kindly. "Let's go get the fire started."

###

Infantry commands, or barracks as the men often called them, were composed of two levels. Like most buildings operated by the Imperial Guard, they were built for defense. Its squat structure, while deceiving to its actual depth, made less of a target. Effectively, the top was a bunker constructed of ferrocrete and covered in armor plating. There were eight sides; aside from the six firing ports, one served as a reinforced entrance and beside it was a small generator. Often accompanying such structures were mesh camouflage nets, barbed wire, and sandbags. Within the bunker level, there was a Vox-set, mounted weapons, and a firing step running along the interior of the wall.

In the center was a hatch. Descending the ladder, one found where the men actually stayed. With ferrocrete and wooden supports, several connected rooms dug into the earth beneath the bunker housed a platoon's worth of men. There was no set design for such quarters; it was highly dependent on the ground which the bunker was built upon. For Bloody Platoon, their new home consisted of about ten, tightly-packed, octogonal-shaped chambers, connected by very short tunnels. Diggers called it the honeycomb design and each section was called a comb. In the center, right where the ladder stood, was the communal comb. Set up were a few tables, washbasins with buckets of water beside them, and were set up as well as a cooking stove with a chimney-pipe that ran all the way up the wall and out the roof. Just a few meters away on the surface was a slit trench for anyone who needed to relieve themselves. One comb was reserved for Sergeant Honeycutt, though this was not a rank or honorific-induced policy. As the ranking medic and the most literate man in the platoon, he needed space to fulfill his duties, ranging from treating injuries and illnesses and writing reports on the platoon's overall condition. Another individual comb was reserved for wargear, ammunition, rations, and other supplies requisitioned or 'discovered' by the men. Finally, there was a single comb dedicated as Lieutenant Hyram's personal quarters and office. His privacy was granted solely via his rank. Leading to his comb was the one Marsh Silas was staying in.

As well, there was another, deeper tunnel accessible by a ladder, taking the surface slope into account. It had been hard digging according to the engineers, due to the thick rock, but they managed to connect their quarters with the other buildings in the compound.

In their barracks, each of the moderately sized combs typically had three or four entrances, depending on its occupants or its overall position. Combs like Hyram's and Honeycutt's were the exception, having only one. For the average design, there was a large open space in the center with a table and a few chairs. The dirt floor throughout the barracks was covered in wooden floorboards. Lamps hung on the walls and connecting shafts. An entrance to a comb stood on the north, west, east, and southern faces. Running diagonally between these entrances was a space dug into the wall, wide and long enough for a man to lay in. In each of the diagonal spaces were two bunks. Eight or so men were allocated to each comb, and squads were intermixed in the case of a collapse.

Joining him in his comb were the Walmsley brothers. Walmsley Minor was the spitting image of his older brother, though he possessed more elan about him, with a rambunctious tone, a prodding sense of humor, and an overconfident smile. Both were tall, physically fit, outgoing, amiable chaps who were disliked by none. Yoxall was a professional sort of fellow, very in touch with his craft, though he didn't like to be rushed and could grow rather irritable. His features were pronounced and a friendly, if quiet, disposition. Then there was the handsome Drummer Boy, always glancing in his little mirror, monitoring the scruff on his chin and jaw, and brushing his hair. Marsh was glad for these four; he, the Walmsley's, and Yoxall went all the way back to the Whiteshields. Drummer Boy was fresher but had earned his place among the veterans quickly even if he was still teased and ignored. Marsh Silas enjoyed their company better than anybody else's.

Also in their comb were his other friends, Logue and Foley. Logue wore a stern, dark expression, and never said much. Most of the time he tinkered with his beloved autopistol; it possessed a high rate of fire and rarely jammed. It was modified with an extended stock, barrel, and a sturdy grip underneath. He never let the enginseers touch it. Foley was more talkative; a fine-featured fellow, although prone to bouts of sullen silence, in which his sharp violet eyes would stare off into the middle distance. Scuttlebut that frequently ran through the platoon observed he was an officer once, but was demoted all the way back to corporal after some incident. A couple of the troopers were running a betting pool on who could get him to crack the story, as he never talked about it. Likewise, nobody dared ask him. He was a skilled Guardsman and did well as a corporal though, which was what mattered to Marsh.

Honeycutt also stayed with them. He utilized his comb as an office rather than a place to bunk down. Unlike Yoxall, who was irritable only when pushed, Honeycutt was cantankerous, sarcastic, and foul-mouthed. While overall a calm man, and very capable of tenderness, the slightest provocation could send him on a spell of obsentieices that would make even a penal conscript blush. Others' imbecility or lack of understanding pertaining to medicine, mainly due to its importance, usually drove him over the edge. Sometimes he could get frustrated with the field chirurgeons dispersed among the three infantry squads, as their overall duties differed, but everyone respected him, especially Marsh Silas.

While he left the others to ready a pot and some water in the communal room, the platoon sergeant went to fetch the medic from his office. Their quarters were empty; most of the men were either washing up down in the camp showers, on guard duty, or down at the beach, having completed their tasks. When he came upon the entrance to Honeycutt's office, he knocked on a supporting timber just inside.

"Either you must be blind or fucking stupid, boy, because there ain't no damn door," came the reply. Smiling, Marsh came in. Honeycutt was sitting at his small desk, writing down a few notes. Around him were field crates, some satchels filled with medical supplies, and another table he used to examine patients.

"Quite the home, have we?"

"Much better than some hellholes the likes of us have occupied."

"Making some chow."

"Then I best come." Marsh turned to leave. "Oh, one moment." He turned around. Honeycutt was digging into one of his satchels and procured an envelope. He smiled, though his lips were partially concealed by his blonde mustache. "Mail arrived today."

Marsh stepped in and sat down on a camp stool.

"If you don't mind reading it, we have some time."

"Do you want to try making out some words?"

"Well, not that much time."

Honeycutt chuckled, opened the letter, unfolded the page, and began reading.

"Dear Silas. I hope you're doing well and you're safe. I pray to the God-Emperor morning and night that he'll protect you. Perhaps the words sound hollow to your ears after so many long years, but I am proud of you. I know that you've found your place among the Guard. I won't leaden you with the details of life here on Macharia𑁋moving here was a mistake𑁋but know I am keeping well. Please, keep more of your wages, you don't have to send all of it back to me. I am beginning to find it harder to write these. I fear I have little to say to you, and I'm becoming more of a bother rather than a relief. I often forget you are a man-grown, and you have now seen what I have seen. Perhaps you've seen far more than I have, and I admire your staying. If I can make one request of you, when and if you get an extended furlough, do you think you could come and visit? It has been too long since I've seen your face. My shift at the factory starts soon. Please take care of yourself. Your mother, Faye."

Marsh was bent over on the stool, hands clasped together. His violet eyes were distant. He imagined his mother, in her cramped apartment, alone. Such a thought pained him greatly.

"Thanks," Marsh said, a bit rigidly. He stood up, wiping his gloved hands together. Honeycutt blinked, then folded it up and handed it to Marsh. Carefully, the platoon sergeant placed it in his pocket. "What does 'leaden,' mean?"

"Weigh down."

"That adds up, I suppose."

"We have a little time to write a letter, Silas."

Honeycutt was the only man in the entire regiment who didn't refer to him by his moniker. It was never by rank, never his last name. Always his first. But Marsh stood up and headed for the exit.

"Let's go eat."

Once Marsh and Honeycutt came to the communal comb, they found the men already at work preparing their supper. The stove was flat on top for cooking pans. One pan and one pot were already on it. The fire burning inside warmed the room. In the pan was diced Grox meat. In the pot, they were cooking rice, also seasoned with salt. Sea salt was one of the only flavor additives the Imperial Guard supplied, at least to the Cadian Shock Troops.

The men were seated on the floor or in the chairs. Drummer Boy and Walmsley Major were doing the cooking.

"I thought he asked you to do the cooking," the heavy gunner asked.

"Last time I tried to cook something for you, you ungrateful babies whined like a child who just skinned his knee." He rubbed his hands together. "Drummer Boy, you better get this right, rice is my favorite."

"Trust me, Marsh Silas, I ain't gonna spoil it." Rice was not the most frequent staple of their rations. Sometimes a shipment from agri-worlds arrived with some. Contrary to their important position in the Imperium, the Guardsmen of Cadia still didn't receive the best food the Imperium had to offer. When they did get something less than standard, they usually pooled rations for a proper meal. All of the present Guardsmen possessed a modicum of knowledge when it came to cooking, although most of what they managed to make was rough and soldiery. Thankfully, Drummer Boy was something of a natural when it came to food, so they relied on him for most of their cooking needs. Walmsley Major was there simply to help.

"What a strange sort this Inquisitor is," Walmsley Minor piped up. "I saw him helping some lads from Second Platoon dig a trench the other evening."

"I kindly doubt it," someone said.

"I swear it by the Emperor. He doffed his coat, grabbed a nine-seventy, and was shoveling like a proper ol' digger."

Everyone murmured among themselves until Inquisitor Barlocke came in. He had produced his hat and it was filled with lettuce-like seaweed. All eyes were clapped on him, and he looked back. After a moment, he smiled.

"I think I gathered enough. I took the liberty to wash them in clean water while I was above. Now it just needs to dry."

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. All were reluctant to accept the offered hat, damp from being filled with wet, bright green seaweed. Not even Marsh dared to get up from the table to take it. Finally Drummer Boy approached and took the hat. He went back over to their stove; above it hung a line running horizontally between two perpendicular wall faces, tied around little metal bolts plugged into the dirt. One by one, he hung the small strips and clumps over the twine.

"The heat will make them dry faster," he said cheerfully. "I'll make sure the meat and rice cooks a bit slower."

Yoxall got up from the table and allowed Inquisitor Barlocke to take his place beside Marsh. Barlocke nodded politely. Everyone remained silent. Men picked their nails or busied themselves over a piece of equipment. After looking around for a moment, Marsh added more tabac to his pipe and began smoking again. Men took out their lho-sticks and lit up. Soon a thin gray cloud of air hung above their heads. A few conversations started up, though they didn't rise above a low muttering. Here and there, a joke was told, and the men laughed. Through it all, Barlocke sat with his hands folded in his lap. He smiled. Marsh noticed that about him; he smiled a great deal. What in the name of the Emperor, he thought, did an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus have to smile about?

"Your regiment has a decent battle record, although much praise falls on your platoon."

"Aye, it's why we're called the Bloody Platoon," remarked Foley.

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood," added Walmsley Major.

"First Platoon of the First Company!" chimed Drummer Boy. Barlocke laughed amiably.

"It's surprising you haven't seen service outside the Cadian Gate."

"Well, we were slated for service elsewhere, but they decided to keep us attached to the Interior Guard seeing as we helped put down a few cults after our formation," Marsh explained. "We work with the Internal Guard often when we aren't kicking back a Chaos invasion."

While the Interior Guard, the Youth Army, and the Shock Troops were all well-known aspects of Cadia's military culture, what many outside of the Fortress World didn't hear about was the Internal Guard. Even many on the planet didn't truly understand or know of the Internal Guard. It was composed of Inquisitors, mostly daemonhunters from the Ordo Malleus, to deal with the multitude of Chaos-worshipping cults that sprung up on the planet. Other Inquisitorial operatives were a part of the organization, dealing with any other enemies of the Imperium, ranging from the xenos that raided or infiltrated the planet to heretics and renegades. Of course, the daemonhunters outnumbered the witch and alien hunters tenfold.

"Cultists ain't shit up against gunmen like us," Logue grunted. Everyone looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Beggin' the Inquisitor's pardon for my soldier's language."

Barlocke chuckled.

"Well, you're precisely correct. I asked Cadian High Command for some experienced, cult hating, mean sons a' bitches."

Everyone couldn't help but grin. That was fine praise coming from an Inquisitor. Even Marsh smirked, the pipe in the corner of his mouth pointing upwards. Barlocke leaned forward and continued. "I need men who were tougher than the penal conscripts. Pipe-hitters, I said to them." Again, the men smiled and chuckled. "A regiment that might as well be Ogryns, though hopefully a bit better looking. Though you can imagine my disappointment when the sorry bastards they presented me with didn't have any women among them!"

The men laughed louder.

"We know where you can find some, Inquisitor," Walmsley Minor piped up.

"When we complete our tasks I'll see to it that you get ten days furlough and double-wages," Barlocke said. The men laughed and joked excitedly, and they continued talking with the Inquisitor for a long while. The men spoke of where they were born, their families, some of their experiences in the Whiteshields or when the regiment was first formed. Barlocke asked beyond such things. He inquired what they enjoyed doing in their down time, or how often they received leave. Most of the time when they got a two-day pass, they went to one of the nearest Kasr's. Being in the controlled sectors, a Kasr was never one too far away. The 1333rd spent much of its time patrolling these sectors to root out cultist activity or serve as a quick reaction force in the event of an invasion. Of course, when they went into the city, they spent their wages on alcohol, decent food, and betting on card games. What did the Commissars think, Barlocke asked.

Well, said the men, Commissars generally disapproved of anything unrelated to drilling, fighting, and maintaining their wargear. But they tended not to interfere with the men on their down time, allowing them to enjoy what downtime they had as long as it didn't push the boundaries of military discipline. As long as they weren't running off to join some pleasure cult, Commissar Ghent would joke. Barlocke commented on their company Commissar. 'Only a fool yanks on the chain when the hound is at rest.' Most of the men snickered, thinking they were the only ones who referred to their illustrious political officers by such disparaging terms. Marsh was impressed by Barlocke's sagacity, finding his words ultimately true. He'd remember that, he decided.

Eventually the seaweed dried enough. Drummer Boy banished Wamsley Major from further cooking, infuriated by his lack of attention when it came to working in the kitchen. After filling up their mess tins with rice, he added the diced up Grox-meat and a pinch of sea salt. Then he cut up and crushed the seaweed and sprinkled it over their dishes. Everyone bowed their heads for a quick but pious prayer, then began to eat and complimented the chef. Drummer Boy was a charitable fellow but not above a few exaggerated bows. Nobody had anything other to drink but the water in their canteens, although no one cared. Only Barlocke was without one. Marsh took notice and offered him his canteen. With a thankful smile, the Inquisitor took it. It was one of their best meals in a while, and the sprinkle of crushed seaweed made it all the better. Long after everyone finished, they remained cramped at the table, their empty dishes scattered over it and their canteens emptied. Leaning on the tiny table, they told jokes and laughed. They forgot there was an Inquisitor among them, none more so than Barlocke himself.

"Have you ever seen an Ogryn woman?" he asked the men jovially.

"What!?"

"There's no such thing!"

"Oh I have, I have!" Barlocke defended. "Now we all know everything about an Ogryn is bigger than we. And I mean everything, and she was especially big. So when I tried to fuck her I nearly fell in!"

The men roared with laughter. Barlocke leaned back in his chair. "I swear, dear Marsh, what I saw there made me never want to take another woman to my bed! You shake your head, Mister Foley, but I was slick, I tell you, slick from head to toe! I might as well have been her newborn! In fact, you Walmsley's, I had to flee for she thought I was!" Everyone laughed even louder. Hands smacked knees and the edges of the table. It was getting on in the night, but nobody cared. Many more stories and jokes were shared until they heard the sound of somebody coming down the ladder. It was Lieutenant Hyram.

The junior officer looked at the men, whose smiles faded slowly. Hyram looked at each face, then ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Don't mind me, men. Inquisitor," he nodded. He seemed rather embarrassed, bowing his head as he began to shuffle by. Nobody spoke. Marsh wished he would just get on with it and go by. But Barlocke turned.

"Lieutenant, I think there's a little food if you're hungry. That is if you don't mind it being rather cold."

Hyram looked at the food sheepishly.

"That's kind of you, but I think I shouldn't."

Barlocke turned around in his seat and looked at Marsh. He gave him a look, rolling his eyes to the second lieutenant. Marsh shifted his pipe to the other corner of his mouth, then took it away with his hand.

"Sir, it's best if you eat. Going to bed on an empty stomach will come back to haunt you on the morrow."

Silently, Hyram conceded. Barlocke gave up his seat to the junior officer. Hyram sat down and accepted Drummer Boy's mess tin which he filled with remaining rice, meat, and seaweed. Everyone stared at him as he ate. He looked up and smiled shyly.

"Thank you. It's...very good."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Drummer Boy said politely.

"Well, I think I'll have another look at Kasr Fortis. Dear sergeant, would you join me?"

###

Up top, the stars were out. The sky was a blanket of blue-purple. Lights from distant gunships and transports swooped high and low. Heavy guns, some close, some far off, thundered away. If one listened even closer, they could hear the engines of a convoy rumbling by. Subtle scents of burning lho leaves and tabac mingled with the salty sea breeze. The tide returned and the channel was filled with water. Moonlight rippled on the calm waves and currents. Across the water, Kasr Fortis was just a floating, black shape. Not a single light burned in its dilapidated spires and skyscrapers. Even with the magnification and night vision capabilities of the magnoculars, the dead Kasr was shrouded in fog.

Marsh and Barlocke stood side by side.

"I can just see the piers...looks like the boats are gone," said the former. "Sentry said he didn't see any of them leave."

"They must be hugging the island, using the fog as cover," Barlocke said, handing the magnoculars back. Marsh was aggravated. They were being out-maneuvered by raggedy heretics utilizing primitive seacraft.

"Crafty cock-suckers," Marsh grunted. He took one more look and then lowered his scope. "Inquisitor, why can't we flatten the Kasr with artillery and airstrikes? Hell, why not an orbital bombardment. The sector is full of ships just waiting for targets."

"Think, Marsh Silas; that is no mere city across the channel. It is a beast, and we must lash at it, wound it, and when it's finally weakened, finish it off with a precise, single blow. To simply attack with indirect fire would cause injury, but not enough to finish it off."

Marsh glanced at the Inquisitor and quirked an eyebrow. Barlocke looked at him expectantly.

"Well, if there's many of them over there, all they have to do is hide underground. Artillery won't do the job if they can just burrow. All we'd do is move rubble around."

"Correct." Barlocke said and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. He donned his coat once more, thought he left it open. A stronger breeze came and blew it backwards slightly. "Destroying those boats is a top priority. We can't risk them escaping when we make our attack."

"Then we should destroy them when they are docked."

"Precisely. But what we need to know first is where they go at night, and why. Because if we understand them..." Once more, he looked at Marsh Silas with an expectant look.

"We can...find better ways to fight'em?"

"Indeed." Barlocke said, satisfied. He inhaled. "Just so you know, I've never made it with a female Ogryn. I've seen no such thing."

"I knew you were lyin', you son of a bitch," Marsh scoffed, smiling and shaking his head. Then he straightened up. "I mean, pardon me, I meant no disrespect and𑁋"

"You are among good company, Marsh," Barlocke said, facing him. "You need not worry about something so...trivial, as banter." He shook his head and frowned. "That's something your hangmen will never understand. Words are sometimes simply that: mere words."

Unsure of what to say, Marsh kept silent. He agreed with the Inquisitor, but he knew his place. Talking out of hand was a good way to get a flogging or a bolt shell to the head. Having gone ten years without receiving either, he wished to keep it that way. He resolved to be more aware in the future, whether or not he was among 'good company.' Then, as though he knew what he were thinking, Barlocke chuckled. "You should never be afraid to say what you want to say, Marsh."

"If I said all I wanted to since I became a Guardsmen, I wouldn't be standing here."

"And if I refused to say all that I wished to, neither would I." Barlocke shrugged. "It is late. I must retire and plan our next move."

The Inquisitor patted Marsh on the shoulder as he walked by, and headed for the slope. Marsh turned and watched him go.

"Plan? Won't you sleep?"

"I never sleep, Marsh Silas." Barlocke kept his left hand on his power sword's pommel. He raised his right hand, curled into a fist, out and up, as he walked around the bunker and to the slope. Not above his head, level with his shoulder. As he disappeared out of sight, he lowered it. Marsh was left standing at the cliff, near the observation post. Instead of looking back out across the channel, he stared into the shadow of the bunker where the Inquisitor passed through. He was reminded of their conversation just a few days ago on the cliff. When he spoke, the Inquisitor seemed to shed some kind of cloak. There was a face he revealed to Marsh that day and to the men that evening. Once more, Marsh thought that this man was unlike any Inquisitor he ever saw or heard of. And he was reminded of the answer Barlocke had given him:

_I'm not._

* * *

**Word Count**: 6,519


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

"Hup, two, ree, fo! Hup, two, ree, fo! Oh, Civil Cindi is quite linty!"

"_Civil Cindi is quite linty!"_

"And her heart is oh-so-flinty!"

"_And her heart is oh-so-flinty!"_

"Oh Cindi, Cindi, all I want with you is a roll!"

"_Cindi, Cindi, all I want with you is a roll!"_

"Never mind the dough!"

"_Never mind the dough!"_

"Oh, Cindi, Cindi, don't you know?"

"_Cindi, Cindi, don't you know?" _

"I wanna make your belly grow!"

"_I wanna make your belly grow!"_

It was the morning of a new day. Bloody Platoon marched in good order through the courtyard of their base. Overlooking them was the regimental command tower; a proud, pale spire with a thin strip of tinted glass wrapping around it. Like the day they set out for Army's Meadow, Captain Murga, Commissar Ghent, Inquisitor Barlocke, Lieutenant Hyram stood by. Also present were the lieutenants from Second and Third Platoons, as well as the company priest, Kine.

Guardsmen in the standard regiments tithed to Cadia did not come from a martial background. Most complained about the frequent marching drills or other parade ground maneuvers. Such was not the case for Cadian Shock Troopers, especially among Bloody Platoon. Marching reminded the Guardsmen about their unity, comradeship, and sheer firepower. Assembled together, shoulder to shoulder, rank pressed to rank, it showcased Cadian values and made them feel proud. Beyond that, marching was a momentary break from the sheer monotony of base-life or the adrenaline-pumping action of battle. It was an excuse to impress the officers, get them off their backs, as well as limber up for the day's operation and sing a few songs to make themselves feel better. Everyone in the company enjoyed hearing Marsh or one of the others lead them in their various cadences.

Marsh Silas brought Bloody Platoon to a stop in front of their officers and had them stand at attention. Second Platoon was behind them and Third Platoon was all the way in the back. Like most company compositions, the first platoon was made up of veterans, the second a mixture of experienced hands and average line troops, and the third platoon was made up of fresher line troopers in a supporting role. Many were just a standard year or two out of the Whiteshields. Three platoons was a very traditional number, though the 1333rd Regiment could afford such configurations. Compared to other Shock Trooper regiments, it was small. Some companies could manage five platoons, not even including their Heavy and Special Weapons Squads, who constituted platoons on numerical and organizational levels.

It was a cool, damp morning. Enginseers, aided by servitors, worked on Chimeras. Men smoked lho-sticks in the trenches. A flight of Valkyrie gunships flew by overhead.

"Men, before we get to our announcements, we thought it fitting Bloody Platoon received a blessing for their successful mission here on Army's Meadow." Captain Murga bowed his head slightly. "I would have wished it sooner, but we had a great deal of work to do preparing this base."

Kine stepped forward. He was an older man, clad in red robes complemented by white trimmings typical of the Adeptus Ministorum. On those white trims were prayers, blessings, and other Imperial Cult incantations written in High Gothic. In one hand he clutched a tall wooden staff with a holy tome trussed at the very top. The pages were tied open so all could see the script, though the High language was lost on the general infantrymen. Kine himself was a hunched over fellow, with a white-gray beard, long hair that came down to his neck. His face was etched with wrinkles and lines. Such age was deceiving; once in a battle against cultists, Marsh saw him charge like a trooper in his prime and cut down ten Chaos worshippers with a chainsword.

"We give thanks to the holy God-Emperor of Mankind, He who has fought our battles, defeated our foes, and won our victories. We remember the men who have fallen to the Archenemy's treachery, and we commit their souls and memories to our supreme lord on Holy Terra! From this day forth, we shall march with greater vigor, renewed energy, and everlasting faith to avenge their loss. And we must always remember..."

Kine's voice began to drift away until Marsh Silas couldn't hear it anymore. He began to chew his bottom lip.

Yes, he remembered the men who lost their lives in the ambush. What a grand ceremony they received. Once the bodies were collected, they were stripped of any useful gear. Boots, tri-dome pattern helmets, flak armor, gas masks, spare charge packs, lasguns, autopistols, special weapons𑁋everything. Even personal possessions, of which they had few, were evaluated by the company sergeants and were either kept, discarded, or traded with other Guardsmen. After all, the men liked to joke, their wargear was effectively on loan. What had the dead received in turn? A canvas tarp to cover them while awaiting transportation. Marsh saw them the day after the ambush. There they were in a row, each covered with an olive canvas, their bare feet sticking out from the bottom, their arms protruding to the sides. Eventually, a Chimera came and took the bodies away. Which mass cemetery they were going to, he did not know. Some space would be found, the remains of soldiers long dead removed, and the fresh corpses dumped in to replace them. Once, he watched a hill of bodies pushed into a mass grave by a tank equipped with a bulldozer blade. They were not even afforded the military honors that came with the reused graveyards. A rank-and-file Guardsman with many more years in the Shock Troops than him, turned and said, 'Glory to the Imperium.'

He remembered that Guardsman very well. A grizzled sort, with deep lines in his face and faded violet eyes. Teeth were missing, his forearms were covered with plasma and laser burns, and his face was pockmarked by so many pieces of shrapnel. It was easy to see the veteran spent many years off-world on countless campaigns. His glory came full circle, bringing from the grand fields of Cadia to the myriad of battlegrounds all over the Imperium. Surely, the dullness of his eyes was the culmination of so much glory.

Glory indeed, Marsh mused to himself.

Quashing such thoughts, knowing it was bad for a Guardsman's morale to maintain bitterness, Marsh snapped back to attention. "...obey your officers, continue your prayers, and if you have questions, let them go. May the God-Emperor bless you!"

Kine retired, managing a feeble little smile, not unlike a contented elder would give upon seeing his grandchildren at play. Without waiting for Captain Murga to announce him, Inquisitor Barlocke stepped forward.

"Some of you men are already aware, but we likely have an infestation of heretics and or cultists across the channel in Kasr Fortis. How large their operation is, at this point, unknown. Our first objective is twofold; scour the region for intelligence regarding their operation as far as their boats. How they got them, what they're using them for. Then, destroy them at dock with artillery fire. Our Basilisks are arriving today, however they will not fire until we discover what those boats' extended purposes are."

Barlocke paused impressively. "Once that stage of our operation is complete, you will be briefed further."

Marsh Silas did not consider himself to be an expert tactician or a master strategist, or altogether bright. But, he did consider himself experienced enough to know plans had a way of crumbling as soon they began. Beyond that, it made more sense to him to eliminate the boats as soon as possible rather than give the heretics more time to organize, stiffen defenses, and continue mainland operations. What if the rogue psyker got wise and decided to vacate the island before they assaulted Fortis? Knocking on doors of the locals wasn't the wisest goal eiter. While the folks living outside of the Kasrs were Cadians, they were washouts and squatters, people so unfit they were unqualified to be a reservist or an auxillary. Most were uneducated and undisciplined, foolishly trying their hands at professions other than soldiering. Marsh Silas wasn't too fond of them, but if they wanted to risk living outside the high walls, even in the quiet zones, he couldn't argue.

Patrolling on foot was a necessary action to take. Early warning systems, radar, Sentinel squadrons, and automated drones were all well and good. But the best eyes and ears on the ground was a Guardsman, or so the _Uplifting Primer _stated. Considering what happened at Army's Meadow, Marsh worried another ambush would occur and more undue casualties would be sustained. Wandering around the countryside would put them at greater risk to be attacked by the suspected cultists in the area of operations. Despite his original fears, he pondered if knowledge of the enemy was really worth the added risks.

Barlocke smiled at him from where he stood among the command squad. "I believe that's all I have to say. We'll take another day of rest and commence operations on the morrow. You men are dismissed."

Marsh spun around on his heel. He and the other platoon sergeants repeated the order, and the men dispersed. As the crowd of Guardsmen began going back to their quarters, he lingered, watching Barlocke. The Inquisitor was among the officers, speaking to Commissar Ghent. Over the bustle of cussing, joking, coughing, spitting, snarking men, he couldn't hear what they were saying. Going over and waiting nearby was acceptable behavior, but he didn't want to risk upsetting the Commissar. Keeping one's distance from the crimson uniformed political officers was a good way to stay out of trouble in and outside of combat. Ghent looked rather serious, while Barlocke nodded and smiled kindly. After a time, they came to some conclusion, exchanged respectful gestures, and departed. Not wasting a second more, he marched over to the Inquisitor. Barlocke, who was eyeing him with interest, saw him coming and closed the distance.

"You disagree?" were the first words uttered by the Inquisitor.

Marsh explained his reservations; the more time they yielded to the heretical bastion across the channel, the more time they could prepare or slip away. What was stopping them from evacuating on their boats one of these nights and scattering themselves over the mainland? If he was so adamant that the rogue psyker was hiding within the dead Kasr, then why didn't they go _now_? What's more, they held the upper hand now! The regiment was rested, supplied, and possessed a fortified base from which to prosecute their operations.

Marsh Silas spoke plainly and bluntly. A few days ago he wouldn't have dared to speak to Inquisitor Barlocke in such a fashion. But the man made it quite clear he was not the average Inquisitor, and wouldn't cry heresy just because the platoon sergeant was making his concerns known. Going now improved the chances of his platoon's survival as well as completing their objectives.

Taking it all in stride with his ghostly smile, Barlocke nodded, his hands politely folded behind his back. He was a hair taller than Marsh, which was quite a statement because the platoon sergeant stood at six and a quarter Terran feet. One who saw both men separately would have seen that when they spoke to individuals who were shorter than them, they stooped over a little bit. Not in a condescending way, not in a way to reinforce what physical superiority they possessed. No, they did so to level their eyes with the other individual, to create an even field between the two parties, to make the opposite feel more comfortable. Marsh was very much aware of when he did such a thing; it was very purposeful on his part. In the Imperial Guard, even sergeants carried with them a semblance of intimidation. From the moment he was ranked, he did everything in his power to dispel that aura. Receiving it from Barlocke, a man he was practically hardwired to fear, was a surreal experience.

Absorbing all that Marsh said, Barlocke nodded thoughtfully for a moment.

"When you told me you didn't want to delve into such a place without knowing what lies within, were you merely speaking of conventional intelligence, or understanding the motives of our target?"

In the time since he uttered the words, Marsh hadn't paid the matter much thought.

"Both, I guess," he struggled.

"I've a lesson to teach you, Marsh Silas," Barlocke said. "Understanding something, and knowing something, are two very different things. Say I was to suffer some trauma, and you sympathized with my plight. You would be understanding of me. But say I endured a pain you experienced also, you would _know _my trouble personally."

"Jus' seems like words to me."

"Never mistake the power of words, Silas," Inquisitor Barlocke said, raising a scolding finger as if he was a headmaster.

"What about useless rhetoric?" Marsh replied. Barlocke's smile widened.

"You're learning. That's very good," he mused. He looked down, smiling to himself. His expression was unreadable to the likes of Marsh Silas, which was surprising to him. Faces, he often joked to himself, were the only things he could read. Barlocke chuckled. "In matters of numbers, it's impossible to know. Any matter of methods myself or CHC could utilize to reconnoiter Kasr Fortis would be thwarted by the rubble and the toxicity. As for the latter, if we understand part of our foe's plans, catch even a glimpse of their operation, to understand _why _they're doing this, we shall be better prepared, even going so far as to turn their own plans against them. You may find this is more dangerous to the foe than simply knowing his numbers or materials. Knowledge, young sergeant, is a weapon greater than any lasgun or bayonet.

Marsh held his tongue, but thought the latter to be much more practical.

He spoke urgently then, eerily meeting Marsh's thoughts. "Silas, you must, _must_, overcome such thinking. Imagine if I was not present at this moment, but the mission was the same. Would you be here, rested, resupplied, and with a well-fortified base and support units? No, Marsh Silas, you wouldn't. You would be dropped onto Kasr Fortis by Valkyries before you could even catch your breath. Those heretics across the water would hear you coming, see you coming, and simply gun you down as you exited the aircraft. It would be a useless waste of life."

Feeling indignant, Marsh straightened up and furrowed his brow.

"Our sacrifice has meaning," he said firmly. "It must. When we fall, we join the Emperor and the honored dead."

"Surely a man who has seen war and so many young lives snuffed out in human waves would realize sacrifice doesn't always have meaning." Marsh grimaced and shuddered. Yes, he had. Lines three, four, five ranks deep of boys hardly out of the Youth Army thrown against the enemy. Torn apart, they were, by shurikens, Warp-laced bolts, and crude Ork shootas. Sometimes no objective was gained. The men wrested control of a hill from the enemy just for the sake of fighting the enemy, and abandoned the hill not long after. In ten years, Marsh had seen it all. He recalled seeing the bodies pushed into the grave. Could victory be worthwhile if purchased at such a cost? Could sacrifice be tempered with achievement, even if the two were unbalanced? Marsh didn't say as much, but he conceded to the Inquisitor, despite how badly he wanted to believe and how strongly he was taught by headmasters, Commissars, and instructors.

Barlocke leaned in very close, smiling, his thick dark hair flowing in the breeze. "Action, boldness, and daring completes missions. Patience and preparation saves lives. That must mean something to a man who looks out for his soldiers like you."

The Inquisitor stepped back and looked out over the yard. Marsh followed his gaze. Bloody Platoon was still heading back towards their barracks. They were in a jovial mood, glad to have another day's rest before starting their sweep of the area. Drummer Boy was smiling radiantly, his neat auburn hair momentarily ruffled by Yoxall, departing his normal professionalism for some schoolyard antics. The Walmsley brothers were chortling and exchanging cuffs on the shoulder, as if they were in their own backyard. All the noncom's were handing out smokes and passing around lighters. Logue and Foley were chatting, and caught Marsh's gaze. The former waved, and Marsh returned the gesture, oddly enough, with the same raised fist Barlocke displayed the previous night. He couldn't help but smile, seeing his friends and his troopers at ease.

Barlocke chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Give me time, Marsh Silas, and I'll show you."

Marsh turned to face him.

"As long as none of my men die because of it."

"I vow, not one more man of Bloody Platoon shall fall."

###

Having what was essentially a day off was a bit odd to the likes of Marsh Silas. Having been raised in a military family, he was warned since the time he could walk that service in the Imperial Guard would be grueling. That was his mother's side of it. When they weren't fighting the countless enemies of the Imperium, he would be performing backbreaking labor or drilling. On the other hand, his father assured such service was rewarding. 'There's glory to be seized, my lad!'he would , mused Marsh Silas as he made his way after Bloody Platoon, heading back to their barracks. What kind of glory could be attained fighting foes like Orks, who did not care if they lived or died. What of the Eldar, whose mysterious persistence he never understood. And Chaos? All those traitors wanted was glory. Lusting after it could only lead to taint or death. His father discovered the latter first.

Still, he wasn't going to complain. Marsh was a fighting man, preferring combat over trenching. Digging didn't interest him as much as meeting the foe. But as long as his men were happy, he was satisfied. Although he wouldn't just let them soak up their wages by loafing around. There was still work to be done. New trenches needed to be dug, barbed wire needed to be laid, and as usual, their wargear needed to be checked, re-checked, checked again, and checked some more.

Beside him, Inquisitor Barlocke walked up the gradual slope. Marsh didn't mind his company now. Nobody seemed to mind him as much, as he made himself a constant among Bloody Platoon. Sometimes he stood apart, watching the men service their weapons. Other times he sat among troopers and ate the same rations as them. Occasionally he would help other squads with their duties. More often than not, he would just appear, tell a joke that would get everybody laughing, and leave just as quickly. Before they broke their fast that morning, Barlocke gave Marsh and each of his bunk mates a pastry. It was the first sweet food they ate in quite some time besides the standard issue blocks of chocolate included in their rations.

It appeared Barlocke, as sociable as he was, was more talkative when it was just the two of them. "You see, dear Marsh, I've spent a great deal of my life at study. Information has a hard time being recorded in the Imperium and making sense of it all is an arduous task. Learn how to traverse it all and you have a mighty tool.

"Ardge-ooh-iss?"

"Difficult."

Marsh grunted and straightened the strap of his M36 on his shoulder. Barlocke continued. "When I was a younger man I shunned the many tomes and texts the Inquisition has access too. Why bother sifting through it all when two different books tell different stories on the same matter? Ah, I was brash then."

"What changed?"

"I'll tell you in due time, young sergeant." Barlocke shrugged and smiled pleasantly. "But you see, I studied tactics from generals all over the Imperium. And I'll concede that sometimes, yes, it's better to mass your forces and throw them against the enemy, especially if the foe is weak. Taking that risky charge can yield a high payoff. Yet that can, and often does, lead to undue casualties."

"Comes with being a Guardsman," Marsh admitted, trying to sound cavalier. Barlocke remained unconvinced.

"Pointless wastes of life, uncompleted objectives, and needless gains are part of being a Guardsman?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"Why do you think it's that way?"

"Doctrine."

"Oh, please."

"Emperor take me, I don't know," Marsh said, tipping his helmet back a little. He then added sarcastically, "I've never asked."

"Perhaps you should."

"Asking questions is a surefire way to get a bolt through the skull."

Barlocke snorted.

"What I'm merely trying to say is, some situations the Guard are sent to deal with are better accomplished by careful applications of violence. Here, we need to exercise restraint. First we learn, then we attack."

"Mighty fine way of puttin' it, Inquisitor, but I don't think it works when you're feeling the heat," Marsh grunted.

"For a man who doesn't ask many questions you're quite skeptical," Barlocke mused. "That's very good."

"How's that?"

"A man who needs more convincing than others will end up more convicted in the answers he receives, when finally persuaded."

Coming around the barracks, they found Bloody Platoon setting to their current task for the rest of the morning. While fortified, the base still needed communication trenches. Having placed the observation post just mere paces from the edge of the cliff, they decided to make it the linchpin of a new trench. It would run from either side of the OP along the cliff's edge, forming a jagged semicircle. A few more small bunkers for heavier weapons would be installed along the lines. The OP would remain the largest bunker in the line just before the barracks pillbox. It would take a good part of the day to get the project finished. Thankfully, they wouldn't have to pour rockcrete or ferrocrete for the bunkers. Bunker, in this circumstance, was a kinder word for a box made up of piled sandbags, wooden slats, and a mesh netting roof.

Men were already streaming steadily from the barracks, having dropped their wargear back inside and ascended once more with their Type 9-70 entrenching tools. Marsh dropped his rucksack, helmet, and took off his breastplate as well. Most of the other men shed their armor and were working in their plain, tan fatigues. Grabbing his own 9-70 entrenchment tool, Marsh walked towards the rudimentary beginning of the new trench. Barlocke was still with him.

He jumped into the trench, turned, and looked up at the Inquisitor.

"Look, you're the boss. What you say goes. You want us to wait, we'll wait, even if I think we ought to quit trenchin' and get about to the bloody business. But I'm only interested in two things, Inquisitor: completing the mission, and above all, keeping my men alive. If you think waiting, observin', trampin', and _carefully _applying violence will keep us out of the meat grinder, then fine."

Barlocke knelt down, the toe of his boot just sticking out over the trench.

"Are you sure you understand what I'm trying to say?" Barlocke asked, wearing a charitable smile.

Marsh gave it some more thought.

"I suppose it means sending the right men to complete the right job, and making sure you kill the enemy without killing too many of your own men."

Barlocke knelt a bit lower, clasping his hands together, his coat billowing in the wind.

"Yes. Do you know what that achieves?" Marsh shook his head. "It creates order and unity."

"How can men being sent off in different directions create unity?"

"Think not the method, but the objective. Actions may differ, but they all steer towards the same goal. That is unity."

Marsh thought for a moment.

"Then, a bayonet charge creates just as much unity."

Barlocke thought and nodded his head to the side.

"Yes, I suppose it does. But a charge breaks when it hits the enemy and each man fights for his own, individual survival, not the objective. Where is the unity then?"

Frowning, Marsh stepped back.

"Ever been in a charge, sir?"

His tone was snappy, more brazen than he initially intended. Barlocke, seemingly undeterred, stood up.

"Yes."

And he departed.

After a moment's hesitation, Marsh joined Bloody Platoon as they began working on the trench. Needless to say, he was put off. Although he was beginning to enjoy the Inquisitor's banter and his unique cut of character, Marsh didn't like being prodded or be left with lingering, nagging questions that sent his mind wandering. Life for a Guardsman was simple. Drill, march, follow orders, don't anger the Commissar, take care of the wargear, fight, survive, try to have at least two decent meals and a canteen of clean water, have one hearty bowel movement, and go to bed if possible. Which of those mattered most depended on the Guardsman. Growing up on a Fortress World like Cadia, his youth was reinforced by the suppression of questions. Questions wasted time, time otherwise spent praying, drilling, fighting, or something more productive. Everything a young Cadian needed to know was explained in full. What else was there to worry about?

Marsh Silas did his best not to ask too many questions. If he was forced to field them, it was in irregular circumstances, like the one Bloody Platoon found itself in since Barlocke and Hyram arrived. Only in matters of concern for the platoon would he raise his voice. Otherwise, he kept silent. Yet in the time Barlocke arrived, he found himself pondering things more than usual. Quiet, but always a keen observer, he was beginning to think Barlocke was specifically goading him into questioning himself and what his superiors said. Why would a man from an Ordo so bent on repressing the population through fear and retribution, incite him to question?

It put a bad taste in his mouth and darkened his mood. At times like these, he was glad for a laborious task to occupy his attention. He focused on the digging; those shoveling would take a scoop of brown soil and dump them into large bags being held by another trooper. Once full, these were tied off and placed on the edge of the trench. Performing the work, even on a crisp day, was hot work and some of the men were down to their undershirts.

Marsh's mind wandered. Despite brushing it off, Marsh did find the Inquisitor's argument to possess merit. _Careful applications of violence. _He supposed he understood why Barlocke preferred such an axiom over the Guard's preferred methods. For as many times he had joined the charge, his M36 leveled, his bayonet poised for the first strike, and overrun the enemy perimeter, he could remember just as many failures. Three standard years ago, an Ork WAAAGH led by an absurdly named Warboss struck the sector they were stationed in. Instead of letting the green tide break against their excellent entrenched position, the regimental commander at the time ordered them to break cover and assault the Orks on open ground without support. There was no support of any kind; not armor, not air, not artillery, and not even Chimeras to carry them into the fight. As such, they sustained heavy casualties and were driven from the field. Another time, the regiment was on a march when the Second Company was ambushed by Eldar infiltrators. Rather than retreating to a more defensible location, the captain and his platoon leaders ordered a frontal assault. The entire company was nearly annihilated, cut down in a hail of shuriken fire. Bloody Platoon and First Company saved the survivors; men like Logue and Foley hailed from the shattered Second.

Yet Marsh was a part of many successful attacks. What a rush it was! Finishing off Ork WAAAGHs or Chaos warbands with one, massive sweep. Above him, gunships and attack aircraft pounded them with missiles and bombs. Tanks and armored personnel carriers of all shapes, sizes, and types, blistered the enemy with cannons, bolters, and lasers. And to be stuck in the middle of thousands and thousands of Guardsmen, shoulder to shoulder, screaming their war cries, their feet pounding on Cadian soil, he felt invincible. As one solid, living, breathing, moving entity, they trampled the enemies of the Imperium. Even the horrors of Chaos seemed insignificant during such moments.

The more he considered it, the more he found the phrase to be set-piece. Guardsmen didn't have much use for the word _carefully. _After all, their business was war. It was quite difficult to be careful when at any moment the Imperium's enemies could descend from above and wreak havoc. Although it surely sounded swell; in fact he quite enjoyed it. In four words it attained the dry, grim, almost satirical nature of their occupation. All the same, it seemed better for the briefing room rather than the battlefield. A planner could carefully apply as much fictitious violence as he wanted on the map, and all at his own leisure. When the first shot was fired, all strategy was merely reaction and it relied on the mettle of Guardsmen.

He was glad when Walmsley Minor spoke up, taking him out of his own mind. The loader wiped the sweat from his brow and stood straight up.

"You know lads, I think that ol' preacher is lyin' through his teeth."

Some of the men paused and regarded him oddly. "Think about it. He says the God-Emperor has defeated our enemies and won our battles. So how come in the after-action reports, the God-Emperor ain't mentioned? How come He ain't been given a wage, or promoted?"

Realizing that he was joking, some of the troopers waved him off dismissively and returned to their work. But Yoxall, holding a bag open for him groaned irritably.

"Halfwit, the God-Emperor doesn't fight side by side with us. He's here in spirit. He influences _everything. _And the _God-Emperor_ of _Mankind _doesn't get promoted."

"So does that mean when I pull the trigger..." Walmsley Minor said, wiggling his index finger, "...that's ain't me doing that, it's the God-Emperor?"

"In a way," Yoxall replied.

"So that means the God-Emperor does my talking too? Even right now?"

"Well..."

"That's enough, men," Marsh said in an even tone, "keep that kind of talk down. Don't want a Commissar mistaking Walmsley's stupidity for blaspheming."

"Marsh, you turning into one o' those preachers with their big words?" asked Walmsley Major.

"Aye, he says it but none o'us can spell it!" Walmsley Minor added jovially. "Not even him!"

"Heard it enough times in the chapel. Hear a word so many times, you can say it and know it without spelling it," Marsh answered. He raised his entrenchment tool to skim some dirt off from the side of the trench. After several strikes, the flat of the shovel caught on something. Marsh winced as he felt the tremors travel up his arms, immediately followed by a brief soreness. Striking the object deliberately, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Some of the other men noticed and gathered around. As he began to dig away at the blockage, he felt nervous. Was he about to dig up an unexploded bomb? Some foul symbol of Chaos? Everyone began to close in, curious, but he warded them off. He ordered everyone out of the trench, except for Yoxall, standing by in case they were digging up an old shell or mine. Both men meticulously dug, their faces slick with sweat and dirt clinging to their cheeks. Huffing and puffing, dark stains spreading under their armpits, hair dampening, cool air stinging their moistened brows, they finally cleared away enough dirt to see the object. A sigh of relief escaped their lips; it was an old, rusted, bent metal pipe.

Setting down his entrenchment tool, Marsh Silas did his best to grip the pipe and pull. For all his effort and strength, he could not move it. Yoxall, despite being less muscled, tried his hand and failed. The Walmsley brothers hopped in, each took hold, and tugged, tugged, tugged, yet the pipe absolutely refused to move. Changing strategies, Marsh dug away at the wall some more, although he realized this would not work. Nobody could gauge how long the pipe actually was, and if they took any more soil away from the wall it would disrupt the flow of the trench. Packing it all back would be time consuming.

Marsh thought and thought. An idea came to mind, and he scrambled out of the trench. Jogging to his kit bag, he reached in, dug around, and procured a coil of rugged, graying rope. Jumping back in, he tied one end around the pipe several times, making a few knots. Testing it to make sure it wouldn't slip off at the slightest tension, he climbed back up.

"Everyone take hold! Make sure your gloves are on. Strongest at the back." When all were assembled, with Marsh standing at the head, practically right in front of the pipe, he turned to face them. "We're going to pull as one, giving it one solid pull, then slacken, and then another pull. Does everybody understand?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas!" cried the men. Turning, Marsh gazed at the pipe for a moment and then took a breath.

"One, two, three!" Marsh yelled. The men gave a heave, paused for a moment, then gave another. It was only a second's pause in between each. Men grunted and huffed, their boots dug into the soil, sweat trickled down their foreheads under the morning sun. "Come on now men, Cooperor!" Marsh hollered. "Cooperor!" A chant rose up among them.

"_Cooperor! Cooperor!_ _Cooperor!_""

It took a great deal of time, even with nearly fifty men. Scraping and shuddering, the pipe began to move. Slowly, more and more of the twisted, bent, dented object slid, inch by inch, from the packed soil. "_Cooperor! Cooperor! Cooperor!_"Soil began to fall. More of the pipe slid out. Marsh smiled.

"It's coming loose!"

With one final cry, they gave a great heave. The pipe slid from the soil and into the trench. Marsh Silas all of Bloody Platoon tumbled down to their backsides. Sitting up, the men looked at their handiwork. Why the pipe was buried there no one could guess, but they didn't care. Foolishly scattered and piled over one another, the men gave a tremendous cheer.

"Hurrah!" they bellowed. Picking themselves up, giving each other helping hands, they laughed and clapped one another on the back. Everyone wished each other a job well done.

"Victory for the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third!" someone hollered, earning a bout of raucous laughter. Yoxall helped Marsh up and the two sat on the edge of the trench, their legs hanging over the sides. Both were covered with brown soil. Neither cared, enjoying the men's bantering and joviality. Marsh glanced over his shoulder to see if the Inquisitor around

There's unity for you, he thought triumphantly.

Footsteps approached. Looking up, he saw Lieutenant Hyram and Captain Murga.

"Well done!" said the Captain, motioning for the platoon sergeant to remain seated. He turned to Hyram. "You've got a good platoon, lieutenant. And a good sergeant. Keep at it, you men."

Captain Murga left, but Lieutenant Hyram remained. He extended a hand down to Marsh Silas.

"I've got you, Sergeant. Fine chant there. Cooperor; work together."

"Only High Gothic I know, sir," Marsh said as he clambered up with the lieutenant's help. They exchanged salutes. As he set about collecting his wargear he found himself accompanied by the junior officer.

"Staff Sergeant Cross?"

"Marsh Silas is fine, sir," he said.

"I wanted to speak to you, briefly, about tomorrow's operations."

"Yes, sir?"

Hyram glanced at Bloody Platoon.

"Privately."

Despite the men returning to their work, and his wish to join them, the staff sergeant consented. Marsh dug through his webbing, looking for his canteen. The lieutenant offered him his, and Marsh accepted, taking a slug then dumping a little on himself to wash away the grime. Cool air met the chilly water on his scalp and shoulders. It sent a pleasant shiver down his spine and he shook a little before handing back the canteen. Picking up his equipment, Marsh and Hyram headed back into their barracks, descended the ladder, and walked all the way through to the latter's private comb.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,088


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

Hyram's comb wasn't particularly spacious. He had a moderately sized table serving as a desk on the left side and a camp stool underneath it. On the wall opposite from the entrance, a small shelf was dug into the earth. On it was a propped-up, palm sized mirror, and some framed pict-captures. Underneath the shelf was another small table, no bigger than a nightstand, with a bowl on it. In front of it was a stool. Being an officer came with such luxuries𑁋luxuries being items such as chairs and personal washbasins. On the right side was Hyram's bunk, dug sloppily in the wall. Whereas all the other bunks in the honeycomb were perfect rectangles, his retained round corners and jagged edges. It was easy to see where the man bumped his head in the morning. His personal touch was a long, horizontal pole, running along the entire length of the earthen bunk. Attached to the pole was a short curtain, also the same length, adding a modicum of privacy. Marsh didn't see the sense in having a curtain covering one's bunk when he was the sole occupant of his comb.

Having set his own equipment down in his comb outside, Marsh stepped in while Hyram deposited his own set of armor in the corner. He glanced at the pict-captures. Three in total, the first showed two middle-aged folks in military dress, hands folded behind their backs but a closeness that was easy to spot. Glancing back at raven-haired Hyram, he assumed the two individuals were his parents. Both were robust individuals; wide faces, muscled frames, and perfect violet eyes. A far cry from their bookish son. The next pict showed a young woman in a wedding gown, a thin veil covering her face, some flowers in her hands. There was a shyness to her eyes and sweetness in her smile. All her fine features were complemented by a subtle shapeliness in the midsection; he found her very beautiful. The final pict was of a boy, no more than ten standard years old. He seemed a scrappy sort, with a gap in between his teeth, freckles across his cheeks, and dusty brown hair. His features favored the women in the previous pict-capture. Rather than wearing a cadet uniform like the schoolchildren of Cadia did, this one wore clothes more befitting of someone with a moderate amount of wealth.

Hyram noticed Marsh gazing at the pict-captures and walked over. He smiled kindly.

"That's my son, Sydney. My wife, Isabella. My papa and mama there, the _illustrious _Colonel Benediktas Hyram and Colonel Gwyneth Hyram."There was a spiteful tone in his voice that he didn't bother to mask.

If only he could be so brazen on the battlefield, Marsh thought.

Hyram stared at the pict of his parents. "Heroes of Cadia, unafraid to fight, unwavering in their loyalty. A true son and daughter of the Imperium, no?"

"Seems like it," Marsh said, eyeing the lieutenant warily. Hyram sat down at his desk, seemingly disappointed. There were some reports on it. Whether or not they were immaculate was unknown to the likes of Marsh Silas. Also on it was the officer's copy of the _Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. _Right beside it was a leatherbound book with fancy printed letters on the front. Marsh glanced at it but couldn't make out the title. He recognized the letters but couldn't form the word in his mind. Hyram noticed him and held it up. Only a few words were known to him, like 'Tactics,' 'Unit,' 'General,' and smaller words like 'the,' and 'on.'

"Have you read this? _General Mansfeld's Treatise on Small Unit Tactics: Significant Contact with the Adversary. _It's about how to lead squads and platoons when heavily engaged with the enemy."

Marsh didn't speak for a moment. Hyram blinked, confused. "Can't you read?" Marsh shook his head. The officer set the book down. "Oh."

"Just a bit," Marsh said, "write a little too."

"Don't they teach you that in school?"

"Not much." Marsh shrugged. "I have a hard time with it. Get the letters mixed up in my head. Know enough to get by."

"Functional illiteracy," Hyram said in a matter-of-fact tone. He then appeared curious. "But can you read the _Primer?_"

"Course' I can't read the damned..." he paused and lowered his voice. "I can read some but I've memorized the rest."

"Every page?"

"Every page."

"How?"

"A couple o' old friends helped me a long time ago." Hyram nodded at this yet seemed perturbed still. Marsh sighed. "Most of these men don't need to read, sir. Just have to aim and fire a lasgun. They possess all Cadian virtues, I can vouch for that."

"All people should read." Hyram said firmly. Marsh, growing weary of the conversation and still somewhat irritable from being lectured by Inquisitor Barlocke, pointed at the Mansfeld book.

"Reading that help you any?" he asked. Hyram's rigid expression dissipated and he looked down at his boots. Immediately, Marsh felt a pang of regret. It was disorderly to mock a superior officer, no matter their ability or his personal disposition. His brief misgiving was overshadowed by an ingrained fear. By doing so, he left himself open to punishment by the superior officer. If the officer felt slighted, he could carry out a flogging. Bracing himself, he waited for Hyram to stand up and recite from the _Principles and Regulations _of the _Primer. _Instead, Hyram cleared his throat.

"Well, what I wished to speak to you about is our mission for tomorrow. Intelligence gathering, locating signs of activity, that business. Do you think we'll run into any more heretics? There are dozens of fortified towns along the coast. How many could have fallen to Chaos?"

Surprised but ultimately glad that Hyram was unwilling to carry out a punishment, Marsh considered the question momentarily. He couldn't help but find it ridiculous. After all, once they were ready they would be assaulting Emperor-knows how many heretics in Kasr Fortis. But he remained calm and respectful as he explained that it was a quiet sector, for the most part. Most of Cadia's inhabitants lived in Kasrs, the massive fortified cities that dotted the surface. However, during invasions, it was often necessary to erect firebases and staging areas to meet them. More defenses would spread across the land, using these bases as an epicenter. When the invasion finally ended, and the sector grew _quiet_ as Cadians were fond of saying, the area was abandoned. Forces and their equipment were needed elsewhere on the planet. So proficient were Cadians at recycling their bases, they left very little behind. These were usually an assortment of rockcrete structures, sometimes just a few, other times as many as two dozen. Often, citizens weary of life in the Kasrs would steal away and eke out a life in these ramshackle dwellings. There were simply too many to count on the planet, most residing in the continually quiet sectors, and the Internal Guard often had more important tasks than rounding up unhappy residents. If the location was strategic enough, an Interior Guard or recon unit was garrisoned there to maintain line of sight on the area and ensure no subjects became tainted. Doctrine held these could also serve once more as linchpins or strongpoints for another base if another invasion occurred, as they did on a regular, cyclical basis.

However, the quiet zones and the neglected settlements did have their drawbacks. As with the case of Army's Meadow, they could serve as breeding grounds for deserters, traitors, as well as heretical Chaos worshippers. Outsiders didn't know much of the Internal Guard, but those born on the planet knew the Inquisitors were always on the prowl trying to snuff out these cults. Proximity to the Eye of Terror often led to the corruption of weaker souls. Men from regiments tithed _to _the planet did not always receive the rigorous training or possess the experience of Shock Troops or other expert regiments. Deserters and defectors could be rife among those who never saw combat. Many in the fortified towns were unfit for any kind of duty anyways and thus didn't have the privilege of living within the Kasrs. It was suspected some bitterness existed among the outsiders because of this. Some claimed they chose to live outside the high walls, though Marsh Silas didn't take those folks seriously.

All the same, the Internal Guard, for all its clandestine power, could not be everywhere however. Cadia was a large planet with a population in the hundreds of millions. Not all of them were in Kasrs, and those that did found security was extra tight to suppress cult activity. Policing and patrolling the outskirts of the quiet sectors was left to the Interior Guard or to smaller Shock Trooper regiments like the 1333th.

It was a roundabout way of explaining, and Marsh sighed when he saw the somewhat perplexed expression on Hyram's face. The entire time, Hyram was taking notes on a small pad of parchment he pulled from his shirt pocket. Typical for a reading type, Marsh thought to himself. As he waited for the lieutenant to finish, he glanced back at the pict of his parents. While not as famous as some other Cadian families, seeing the portrait, he remembered hearing the name 'Hyram,' in his youth from time to time. Their exploits were plentiful and were respected. How could such brave, professional soldiers produce such timid offspring? A man who was more comfortable reading and jotting down pointless notes, failing even to exercise his rights as an officer. Did he not know he could? He had to! He could read, for the Emperor's sake. Did he lack the spine to even punish his soldiers? It wasn't that he wanted to be punished but he was finding the man before him all the more baffling.

When Hyram finished his current line, he looked back up, his expression urging Marsh to continue.

"What it comes down to, is you ought to go out expecting contact at some point. Ambush, sniper, roadside bomb, half-starved cultists running at you with knives, you name it. All I can say is be ready for a fight, because the next batch ain't gonna get themselves drowneded like these Meadow folk."

"Drowned."

"Huh?"

"Drowned is the correct way of saying it."

"Let's just agree the party in question ain't breathing no more."

"Yes," Hyram chuckled. "You Cadians sure have a way of speaking."

"We."

"Beg your pardon?"

"_We_ Cadians, sir. Don't forget whose blood's in your veins, brother-mine_._" Hyram's face flushed and he looked down at his boots. Marsh pitied him in that moment, though he felt his aggravation mounting. He looked back at the portrait. Both man and woman were vigorous types, their chests adorned with countless medals. Their eyes possessed a certain energy that all Cadians enjoyed. But that spark seemed absent from Hyram's.

Then it hit him. Struck him like a bolt shell. Seeing the blushing, embarrassed, bookish, spineless man before him, he understood exactly what brought him here. Oh, he was smart, smart indeed. Using his rank and his literacy, he styled himself more valuable to the Astra Militarum as some kind of clerk or administrator. Somebody who sat behind a desk all day typing𑁋tapping away his hours at a terminal. What better way to avoid seeing combat service! It was certainly made all the easier since he was born off-world. Dissatisfied with their son's lack of Cadian virtue, they cracked the whip and sent him here to fulfil his duty. Not just as a Cadian, but as a servant of the Imperium. Why else would he be so upset with his parents? Sent away from his cushy job on Cypra Mundi to go fight with the grunts?

Inhaling deeply so as to conceal his anger and disgust, Marsh stepped closer to him. "Sir, can I speak to you honest-like, man to man?"

"Go ahead," the officer said apprehensively. Marsh briefly peered through entrance, to see if any of the men or figures of authority decided to come down. Content the runt before him wouldn't have the gaul to flog him, Marsh decided to do what he'd never done before: discipline an officer.

"If a Commissar was with us the other day and saw you behind that APC, he'd o' had enough reason to shoot your ass. My company commander and Commissar asked me of your performance and I covered for you so you didn't end up with a bolt shell in your head." Hyram went a little pale. "I'm the platoon sergeant, meaning the _platoon's _sergeant first and your sergeant second. I've been with them a long time and I'm trying to keep them alive best I can. Your job as an officer is to make decisions and give orders, and I make sure these gunmen follow them. You need to be present here, and here," Marsh tapped the side of his helmeted head, then his breastplate over his heart. "If you can't manage that, I'm not going to cover for you again."

Because a poor officer is just as bad as the enemy, he thought. There was no reason to say it out loud. The downcast look in Hyram's violet eyes proved to the veteran sergeant that he received the message. Marsh exhaled and rubbed his stubble-covered cheek a moment. He was amix with so much furor, agitation and stress, feeling elated for being able to speak his mind to someone above his station as well as chagrin for berating an inexperienced soldier. A part of him was quite pleased with himself, though another parted wondered if he would treat a new recruit into the platoon in such a way. Was it fair? A lesson from his mother long ago echoed in his mind. 'A temper will never solve your problems, Silas.'Ever since he could make out words, she taught him so. He knew losing his patience was bad for platoon morale; its impact on the lieutenant's morale would be just as devastating. But this day, Marsh's indignation won out. The sniveling excuse for an officer, forced to fight, rather than carry out his duty like every other loyal Cadian son and daughter, deserved it. Hopefully, he would now rise to the task lest he be removed from command, one way or another.

"Yes, sergeant. Thank you," was all Hyram said. His voice was subdued and he lowered his head. Marsh, feeling his resentment begin to fade, felt sorry for the officer then. He was about to apologize for being so harsh when Drummer Boy burst in.

"Marsh Silas!"

"Drummer Boy!" Marsh snapped, "You ask permission before entering an officer's quarters!"

"But I𑁋" Marsh quickly silenced him with a glare. Drummer Boy, despite his pleading, anxious expression, complied. "Lieutenant Hyram, Corporal Gladwin requesting permission to enter, sir."

"Granted," the lieutenant consented. Drummer Boy stepped in, clicking his heels together.

"Marsh Silas𑁋"

"Drummer Boy, any and all reports will be delivered to the _ranking _officer," Marsh said, nodding towards Hyram without breaking his gaze with Drummer Boy. The radio operator could have sneered or rolled his eyes in disbelief, but he maintained his soldierly discipline. Marsh was very proud of him, then. Both looked at Lieutenant Hyram.

"Sir, reports coming over the vox. The convoy of Basilisks just got ambushed near a fortified town up the road."

Marsh and Hyram quickly exchanged a glance before bolting for the exit. All three men scrambled up the ladder. The first one up, Marsh found Bloody Platoon gathered near the right side of the cliff. Some murmured, others gazed through magnoculars. Pushing his way to the front, someone handed him a pair. Looking through the scope, he could see the convoy some kilometers distant. They were halted on the road; the lead vehicle was a smoldering mass of burning, twisted, blackened metal. Aflame, the crew tumbled off the wreck and thrashed for some moments. A thick column of oily smoke rose into the crisp sky. The others were blocked and the men were taking cover in a ditch, taking fire from the town across the road. Muzzle flashes appeared in the windows of the town, while streaks of red were flung from the barrels of the pinned down men. Occasionally, an explosive would go off. Some of the more intrepid gunners turned one of the Basilisks around, leveled the cannon, and fired a round straight into the town. One of the buildings, a blockhouse, erupted into a cloud of gray dust. Chunks of rockcrete flew through the air. The report of the big gun echoed over the basin. Even from where they stood, he could hear the _pop-pop-pop _of autoguns and the crack of laser fire.

"Do you think they'll be able to hold their own?" someone asked. Marsh lowered his magnoculars and looked around for an officer. Not too far away, he saw Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and Inquisitor Barlocke. At the same moment Marsh turned, so did Barlocke. All the Inquisitor did was nod. It was enough for Marsh Silas.

"We're not going to sit around to find out. Wargear!"

The entire base seemed to erupt into commotion. Operators ran to their Chimeras, starting their engines. Pilots ran for the Vulture gunships. Men who weren't with their platoons dashed for their barracks. Soon they were shouting and stampeding, an organized flurry of bodies. Like a rush of water, Bloody Platoon flowed into their barracks and hurried down the ladder. Marsh Silas joined them. Skipping the ladder, he jumped down and landed low on his feet. Sprinting to their combs, the men pushed and shoved and weaved past each other. Drummer Boy, ever adding light to the situation, complained they just finished stowing their gear from the morning review. Marsh gave him a cuff and sent him off. As he navigated the mass of men, he bellowed orders.

"Don't take it unless it kills heretics! All the extra ammunition, charge packs, and grenades you can find, take it. We're going to need it. Hustle up, come on!" He clapped his hands together. He finally reached his comb, where he found his mates already dumping the gear they didn't need and stuffing every pouch, musette bag, satchel, pocket, and rucksack with all the ammo they could carry. Marsh dropped his excess gear and grabbed several extra autopistol clips from his bunk. Once everyone was ready, they bolted back out. Sergeants Mottershead, Holmwood, and Queshire continued to shout and bark. Marsh was about to follow, then he hesitated. Quickly, he turned back to his bunk, folded his hands together and placed them on the edge of his nook. Lowering his head and squeezing his eyes hut, he uttered a quick prayer. "God-Emperor, protect us in the battle to come. Save the lives of those men, your servants, who desire to live, see them through this day. Save them." He paused, opening one eye and looking upwards slightly. "And if you have time, save mine."

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"There's a time for that, my friend."

He turned. It was Barlocke.

###

Rather than ride inside the speeding, lead Chimera, Marsh Silas knelt beside the turret, watching the battle ahead through his magnoculars. They were on a long, winding road, devoid of sharp turns. There was no chance of being thrown off. A popular memory in Bloody Platoon was when their sergeant was boldy standing atop a Chimera when it took a sharp turn too quick. He was thrown off and tumbled along the road, breaking his arm and dislocating a shoulder. Now he only stayed on top if the road offered no sudden turns.

The battle was approaching. Red streaks of laser fire went back and forth between the halted convoy and the town. Tracer rounds from autogun broke through the smoke. Grenade launchers thumped away at hardened structures. Another Basilisk went up in flames.

"Damn it all!" Marsh grunted, lowering his magnoculars as the wind pelted his face. He ducked his head back into the turret. "Tindall, can't you make this heap o' scrap go any faster!?"

"Don't insult the Machine Spirit, Marsh Silas! We're going as fast as we can!"

Marsh got back up and looked through his magnoculars once more. Come on, come on, come on, he thought repeatedly until he was practically breathing the words.

"Patience, Marsh Silas!" he looked to his right. Standing in the turret was Barlocke. "We'll get there soon!"

"Not soon enough! We need to help them before they get wiped out!"

The big cannon on the turned Basilisk fired again. Another building was demolished. A column of grimy tan-gray dust shot skyward. Rubble descended around it. Briefly, the enemy fire stalled. Moments later, though, it began again, this time with more tenacity. Marsh watched with anticipation, his heart already pounding, adrenaline pumping. It was going to be a fast, dirty fight. House by house, room by room. First, they would link the Chimeras up in front of the wounded convoy, giving them cover and time to evacuate towards their base on Army's Meadow. Once they were pinned down by multilaser and heavy bolter fire, Bloody Platoon would advance into the small town. Marsh knew of this place; it was a U-shaped assortment of blockhouses. The opening of the U face the road, with around a dozen buildings going up either side and a large barracks for the garrison that doubly served as a town administrative center. It was barely important enough to note on the map, but all installations, Kasrs, and townships required a military presence.

Had these citizens fallen to Chaos too? Did the maniacs from Kasr Fortis infiltrate the town, massacre the inhabitants, and planned the ambush? How did they find out about the Basilisk convoy?

"The rogue psyker I told you about," Barlocke said suddenly, "he knows me. He knows the Guard. Don't doubt for a moment, Marsh Silas, that while we observe Fortis, he observes us."

Marsh stared at the Inquisitor for a short time. He was always ready with an answer. But the sounds of battle drew ever closer and he turned to face them. Readying his lasgun, he prepared to leap from the top of the Chimera. The convoy of APC's slid in front of the self-propelled artillery; with a metallic _whirr _the turrets turned and began pumping the town with multilaser fire. Gunners on the heavy bolters began firing in bursts, raking windows and firing ports. After firing several times, Marsh and Barlocke jumped down on the opposite of the APC. The ramps dropped and Bloody Platoon spilled out onto the road, sergeants barking orders and men screaming. They took up positions in between the Chimeras, following the heavy bolter fire.

"Maintain a base of fire! Keep your lasguns on semi-auto! Conserve the charge packs! Mark your targets before you fire!" Marsh shouted, moving between the clumps of Guardsmen. "Spacing, spacing! Cycle those charge packs! Keep it up! Let'em have it! Fire on the muzzle flashes! I said spacing, damn your eyes! Intervals between men, don't bunch up!"

"Keep your heads down!" he heard Lieutenant Hyram yell. It was obvious he was trying to sound strong, though he could hear his voice wavering. "Spot your targets before you fire!" He was over by the lead APC, at one corner, firing blindly. Marsh stopped near the second APC and peered at the town. They were already suppressing the heretics inside, save for the first building on the right. The two buildings directly across from it were rubble, thanks to the Basilisk. But heavy stubber fire was pouring from its windows; Knaggs and Fletcher couldn't deploy their missile launcher for fear of getting gunned down in the open. Nobody could advance until they got rid of the stubbers. Thinking, he turned around and looked at the Basilisk which had turned to fire into the town. He ran over, climbed up on the tread, and got the loader's attention.

"I want a big fucking hole in that house!" he shouted, pointing at it. The artillerymen got to work, slamming a shell in, closing the breach. Marsh dropped down to the pavement and took cover by the APC's. "Get down!" he hollered. Everyone hunched low just as the massive cannon fired. The shock was so great some of the men toppled over. For a moment, Marsh's hearing went and he felt dazed. When he looked back at the house, he saw that the entire side and roof had collapsed. The stubber fire was gone.

Barlocke rose to his feet.

"Heavy Weapons Squads, deploy here and suppress the barracks! Sergeant Holmwood, Sergeant Queshire, take the specialists and clear the houses on the left side. I'll take Command and First Squad up the right; Yoxall, you're coming with us! Ready?"

"We're ready!" Everyone shouted.

"Marsh Silas, Color Sergeant Babcock, lead the way!" Barlocke shouted. Marsh loaded a fresh charge pack and looked at Babcock. The standard bearer raised his laspistol in his right hand, and the flag of their regiment in the other.

"For the Emperor, the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third, and Bloody Platoon!" he hollered, and charged. Marsh was right behind him. With terrific cries of 'the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third,' and 'Bloody Platoon,' the Guardsmen surged across the road and into the town. Heavy bolter fire streamed over their heads, continuing to suppress heretics firing from the windows. Knaggs and Fletcher, now having more covering fire, began launching missiles into the barracks. Olhouser and Snyder barraged it with mortar rounds, dropping smoke shells in front of the reinforced building. Chunks of rockrete were blown away by Foster and Ledford on the lascannon and the autocannon operated by Albert and Brownlow. Multilaser fire continued to pelt the enemy. It was a grand orchestra of heavy ordinance; the balance of battle was falling into their hands.

After briefly searching the destroyed house on the right, finding only corpses and wounded heretics who were finished off with a blow to the head, they came to the metal door of the next house. Stacking up on either side, the men waited for Yoxall. The demolitions expert came forward, leveled his meltagun, and proceeded to destroy the door. As the golden-orange beam cut through the air, causing a loud hissing noise, the door proceeded to melt into molten slag. When it finally ceased, one of the men lobbed a frag grenade inside the house. When it exploded, they heard demented screamed inside. A shredded-face, tattered-clothes wearing heretic ran out with its bayonet leveled at Yoxall. But Yoxall was too quick; he sidestepped the charging heretic, drawing his knife in the same instant. Turning, he drove the knife into the heretic's lower back, causing his back to arch. Then he kicked him in the back of his knee, and slit the enemy's throat. Corrupted blood spilled down his neck.

Barlocke took point, jogged up the steps with his shotgun, and fired three times into the dust-filled house. Marsh was beside him, and the two rushed in. Rising from an overturned table, a heretic drew a pistol. Cutting him down with several lasbolts, Marsh found another heretic running with a knife. He slammed the butt of his lasgun into the heretic's face, knocking him to the floor. Savagely, he slid his bayonet into the heretic's flesh, first in the belly, then in the neck, and finally ramming it through his cheek. Turning, he watched as Barlocke pumped another Chaos infected form with inferno rounds. The man's clothes caught fire as he fell. Another appeared with a short blade; Barlocke shot him point blank. The impact blew the man's chest open, exposing his broken ribcage and torn lungs. When a heretic attempted to grab Barlocke from behind, Holmwood was upon him, bringing him down the floor and stabbing him in the chest with his trench knife. Drummer Boy was behind him, firing into the room behind the main area.

In minutes, the Guardsmen cleared the rooms, finished off the wounded, and reloaded. When Marsh left the house, he saw the third house on the opposite side of the town. The door was blown open and Tatum was filling it with fire. When he finally released the triggers of his flamer, he stepped back away from the door. Smoke and flames rose from the windows. Heretics began to stumble out, writing and screaming, their hair and clothes afire. Despite the maelstrom of gunfire and violence, he could hear Queshire shouting.

"Let'em burn! Let'em burn!"

Both teams moved onto the next houses and a rhythm developed. Charges, grenades, flamers. Let the dust settle, let the foolhardy heretics attack, wipe them out, then charge in. Brutal displays of hand-to-hand combat took place. Like the corrupted at Army's Meadow, these foes were weak, disheveled, malnourished. They were weak, unable to throw their weight against the Guardsmen. Bayonets, knives, shotguns, autopistols, and fists cleared room after room and house after house. The pattern was perfected. All the training and experience melded together and brought order to the battle. Frag grenades through the door. _Boom!_ Cut down those that attempted to escape! Charge, charge, charge! Bayonet thrusts, high and low! Screams, war cries! Go for the trench knife, hear the jaw bones crack under the knuckles! Slash with the sword! Punching, kicking, strangling, stabbing, shooting! Check the rooms, kill the wounded. Next house! Grenades! Shoot! Storm! Melee! Check, wait for the call, 'All clear!' To the next house! Grenades! Shoots! Storm! Melee! Check. 'All clear!' Next house! 'On! On! On!' There go the colors, gaudy and beautiful in the sun! Next house!

Stepping over corpses, they doggedly reclaimed the houses. By the time Marsh, Barlocke, and Hyram seized the final building on their side, the young officer was out of breath. Everyone else was worked up, but confirmed they were still ready for action. Barlocke pressed his shoulder against the side of the door and glanced out at the barracks. The fire from the final heretical bastion was surprisingly dormant. Hardly any fire aside from the occasional potshot came from its windows. Marsh joined Barlocke, glaring at the building suspiciously.

"Drummer Boy," the Inquisitor finally said, "tell the heavies to move up to our position. Have them stay close to the buildings."

Wiping his sleeve across his dirtied forehead, Marsh leaned back against the wall, sitting on his heels, the stock of his weapon planted firmly on the cluttered floor.

"Maybe they pulled out," he offered. Barlocke shook his head.

"They're still in there."

Unconvinced, Marsh took another look at the barracks. Sure enough, an autogun went off and a trio of rounds hammered the other side of the wall. Marsh ducked back in; as he did, something caught his eye. Someone flung one of the heavy doors open. When he looked back out, he could see people stumbling out. But they didn't look liked heretics. They were civilians; men and women of all ages, in average dress, absolutely terrified. Some bore marks of torture. Behind them, he could see corrupted Interior Guardsmen, their faces gaunt and ragged with impurity, their violet eyes ablaze. Marsh raised his lasgun but couldn't get a clear shot. The heretics were lining up the civilians and staying low behind them. Demented voices cried orders and threats to the prisoners, who cowered and huddled together. Almost fifty people were assembled in front of the heretics now.

More shouting followed. Pulling and grabbing, the heretics forced the people to form a line in front of them. There were at least fifteen hostiles within the circle, maybe twenty. Once they were amassed, they began prodding them with knives and gun barrels, forcing them to move forward, out of the town.

Barlocke pointed at Drummer Boy. "Order all units to hold their fire."

"Sir," Marsh said, "they're using the civilians as a shield. If we hold fire they're going to slip away. We have to open fire. Letting those heretics escape is out of the question!"

Before Barlocke could respond, it was Hyram who put his foot down.

"Absolutely not. We can't sacrifice those civilians! Look at them! Our duty is to protect them!"

"Lieutenant, I don't like it any more than you do, but if those heretics escape they'll be able to break into the country. We can't let a mob of tainted traitors roam the planet."

"Unacceptable," Hyram hissed, "unacceptable casualties."

"If we make one move they're going to start hosing civilians anyways!" Marsh argued, knowing he was setting a terrible example for the men. But it was no time to worry about them. The situation lay outside.

"Both of you are correct," Barlocke said mystically.

He seemed to think for a moment. His gaze grew as hard as adamantium. A certain darkness seemed to fill those coal-like brown eyes. A gust of wind blew through the entrance, ruffling his coat. His wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat, loose on his head, fell to the floor, landing upside down. Buffeted by the breeze, it turned round and round, like a top. Slowly, it came to a halt. All of a sudden, he heard a series of cries. Looking back out through the door, he found the heretics were clutching their heads. Their weapons fell to the ground as they clawed at their hair or gripped their ears. As they wailed, the perplexed civilians scattered for cover.

Barlocke drew his sword. Without ceremony, gusto, or authority, he uttered a single word. "Charge."

Marsh let his lasgun hang by the strap, stood up, and drew his sword. Pressing the button on the hilt, blue energy coursed up the blade. Men drew their daggers and raised their bayonets. In an instant, they swarmed out of the house. Covering the distance quickly, they set upon the struggling heretics. Marsh ran one through, his blade sliding right into the heretic's center. Mottershead slashed another across the chest, then impaled him through the gut. Barlocke, a master swordsman, raised his sword, rotated on his feet, and cleaved the head off a third.

In moments, the incapacitated heretics were cut down. After killing the last one, Marsh surveyed the town. Houses were reduced to rubble, were filled with flames, or hollowed out from explosives. The barracks was silent, but he ordered first and second squads to search it all the same. He wasn't going to take any chances; the situation had almost gotten away from them due to the heretics' last ditch effort to escape. In all his soldier's life he never saw them use civilians as human shields. He saw them do much worse in the past, but this was just as rattling to him. Everyone else remaining around him also seemed shocked, but there was a certain air of victory. An ambush was successfully checked. Doing a headcount, he found Bloody Platoon sustained no casualties escape from a scrape, graze, or light burn. Only two Basilisks were destroyed, and now that they were free to move, the convoy could continue to Army's Meadow. By the grace of the God-Emperor, they saved the civilians as well. Too many times were civilians sacrificed on behalf of the mission. As the adrenaline seeped away and Marsh took stock, he felt a certain amount of pride, or at least satisfaction, as the civilians began to gather. Hyram ushered them over, kindly helping them to their feet.

"You're all safe now," he kept saying to them. As the lieutenant, Honeycutt, and the other medics began to administer aid, Marsh ordered the rest of Bloody Platoon to establish a perimeter. He deactivated the power function of his sword. Then, he retrieved a rag from his kit bag and slid it along the length of his blade. Once he wiped the blood away, he returned his sword to its scabbard. When he discarded the rag, it landed on one of the dead heretics. Turning his attention to the corpse, he knelt down and peered at the corrupted man's face. His skin was ashen gray, his hair scuzzy, and his eyes were bloodshot. Many years ago, when he was still in the Youth Army, the sight of corpses used to frighten Marsh Silas. Even having seen more than a few before finally donning flak armor for the first time, it wasn't enough preparation. Now, years later, he didn't mind them at all. Occasionally, the body of a friend or mangled civilian would cause him grief. But that of an enemy? Not in the slightest.

Yet this was far from his mind. Marsh wondered why the heretic, along with the rest, suddenly dropped their weapons and tore at their heads. There were no marks, no signs, absolutely nothing he could make out.

"Chaos is unpredictable." Barlocke knelt beside him. "It digs its fangs into the mind, the body, the soul. It blackens and deforms all. Sometimes its grip is absolute. But like a quake in the earth, its power can cripple lesser forms. Perhaps we saw such a tremor just now."

Marsh eyed the Inquisitor warily. Looking back at the sergeant, Barlocke flashed his characteristic, pleasant smile.

"I reckon so," was all Marsh managed to say. Barlocke's smile faded, though there was no malice or suspicion upon his features. He seemed to be searching the young staff sergeant's face, trying to find some object in his eyes. Staring back at the Inquisitor, that aura from earlier was gone. Yet there was something lingering. It was not sinister, but ominous. A subtle degree of power, although it didn't stem from raw physical strength, might of arms, or pure experience and talent. Not once had he felt in the short time he knew the Inquisitor, until this day, from the moment his piercing dark eyes landed on the heretics.

"Marsh Silas."

Both he and Barlocke turned around. Drummer Boy, ashen-faced, pointed over to Hyram.

"The Lieutenant needs to speak to you. We have a problem."

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,307


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Marsh Silas and Inquisitor Barlocke approached Lieutenant Hyram. The junior officer was standing in front of the civilians, who were huddled together. One woman, looking a few standard years younger than Hyram, wearing a dusty frock and her hair falling from a loose bun, stood in front of them. Some of the medics, led by Honeycutt, continued to assist those that were injured. Despite the previous order to bring wargear that could only kill or assist in the capacity of killing, they brought an ample supply of rations and medicine. These rations, not of a terrible quality after the most recent resupply, were being passed around between the fifty or so civilians. Bandages were wrapped and broken limbs set. Honeycutt, despite his cantankerous disposition, was quite gentle with the still trembling civilians.

A dreadful stench clung in the air; burned and decaying flesh, gunpowder, blood, smoke. The sun was rising higher in the sky, although the morning was not through yet. It was a quick fight and the men were alert rather than tired. Sometimes a battle carried out with expediency and vigor primed the men. First and second squads were returning from clearing the barracks. Three wounded heretics were dragged out, rambling foul, daemonic chants. All three were quickly frisked. Upon finding nothing, they were forced against the barracks wall, their backs towards the town. Mottershead proceeded to walk up to each and execute one with a single shot from his laspistol. Each one crumpled to the ground, nothing more than threadbare piles of thin flesh, brittle bones, and torn clothing on the hard, cold ground. A spatter of blood coated the rockrete surface.

After an exchange of salutes, Marsh Silas glanced at the civilians.

"What should we do with them, sir?" he asked flatly.

Hyram glanced over his shoulder.

"Never mind that just yet, Staff Sergeant Cross. This woman here, miss...?"

"Asiah," she answered, bowing her head. Marsh approached, offering a friendly smile.

"You need not lower your gaze here, miss. We're here to help you." Marsh remembered, moments earlier, telling his superior officer they may have had to fire upon the enemy despite their human shields. A wave of remorse passed over him, for being so rash. While members of the Adeptus Astartes or the Adepta Sororitas could ignore the lives of the humble folk, he could not. Would not. He failed to remember his own principles, and decided to pray for forgiveness once they returned to base.

Asiah looked back up, a delicate display of gratitude upon her fatigued yet ultimately charming features.

"Miss Asiah," Lieutenant Hyram said in an orderly tone, "please inform them of the situation you just explained to me."

Clasping her hands over her stomach, tears threatened to fall.

"Sir, some of the soldiers were heretics and captured us before we could even put up a fight. We've been locked up for days. But then more heretics came and started shooting at the road when the artillery came! The second group took the children away! All the children! My little boy! They came and took them, killed folks who tried to break out, and the rest they threw into the cells in the big building! We tried to hang onto our little ones but they beat us and cut us! You have to get them back!"

At that, she burst into tears. She cupped her face with her hands and sobbed. Many of the women behind her did as well, bringing sleeves and aprons to their eyes or wailing into their hands. Husbands, many of them middle-aged folks who weren't fit for service anymore, did their best to comfort them. It was a pitiful sight and Marsh's heart went out to them. From his kit bag he procured the cleanest cloth he could find. It was nothing more than a torn piece of white fabric, taken from an old shirt he tore up some days earlier. Hardly a proper tissue, but rough soldierly types such as he did not care. It would have to do. He offered it to the lady, who withdrew her hands from her eyes. Touched by his kindness, she took it from his hand almost shyly. She smiled sweetly at him as she dabbed at her eyes. The white fabric covered part of her face as she did. It was as if she was hiding behind it a little, smiling at him. Marsh smiled back and put his hand on her arm.

"Miss, which way did they take the children? Can you tell me that?" he asked her tenderly.

She turned and pointed over the barracks.

"That way, over the rocky ridges, back towards the old fishing dock."

"How do you know that?" Barlocke asked. Asiah looked up at the Inquisitor, as if she hadn't noticed him until that very moment. Her eyes grew wide as saucers, her skin paled, and she began to tremble. A point of horror seemed to be Barlocke's Inquisitorial Rosette. The golden skull in the very center of the bone-white, black fringed rosette stared back at the middle-aged mother. Seeing her fear, Marsh leaned in.

"Answer his question, miss," he said, speaking as gently and reassuringly as possible. "Worry not, he means you no harm."

Asiah looked at the three men warily.

"Who are you?" she asked timidly.

"They call me Marsh Silas. This is my platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram, and our current commander, Inquisitor Barlocke. And..." he turned and looked back. The men who weren't on the perimeter stood some standard feet behind them. Tatum was filling one of the more tainted homes with flame, while Yoxall detonated an explosive in another across the way. The Walmsley brothers were fiddling with their heavy bolter. Hitch was juggling some frag grenades. Knaggs was staring down the wide barrel of his missile launcher. Honeycutt berated Derryhouse as he applied a bandage over a graze on the latter's temple. Troopers smoked, told crass jokes, swore loudly, and went over their wargear. Marsh sighed and smiled, "...and these are the merry men of Bloody Platoon."

Asiah couldn't help but smile again, almost as if she were charmed by this ridiculous pack of Guardsmen before her.

"Well, it's always been there," Asiah finally answered. "All the locals know about it. But you won't find it on map. Hardly any places besides the Kasrs are on a map..." She explained that farming was impossible on Cadia. Furthermore, it was frowned upon for being non-military, even if it was for sustenance. So the local people, overlooked by Cadian High Command and all of its various bureaucratic officers, turned to fishing. Cadia's imports consisted of food, war materials, and soldiers, all of which was sent to Kasrs. So the small townsfolk, often made up by crippled veterans or those who miraculously survived long enough to leave, washouts, those too unfit for even the lightest of duties, and other undesirables harvested fish. Only the youngest, fittest children were sent to Kasrs via the Interior Guard. But all the fishing boats were stolen away over the years by deserters and heretics; Kasr Fortis was their rallying point. For years, they kept to themselves save for the occasional theft while the townies traveled to the local Kasrs to buy food. But over the past two standard years, they were harassing the towns surrounding the channel, the basin, and the rest of the coast. They would land at the fishing docks, which Asiah called the Point. To get there on foot𑁋and it could only be reached on foot𑁋would be a five and half kilometer trek. Stories from other fortified towns relayed that heretics and cultists would steal supplies, clothes, but their real prizes were children. No one knew why.

His blood running cold, Marsh gazed at Barlocke and Hyram. Barlocke received this information without emotion. Hyram, much to his surprise, seemed incensed.

"Has anyone brought this attention to Cadian High Command?"

"For years, sir!" she said. "But no one ever listens to us. Because we live outside the Kasrs we aren't seen as important, so they ignore us. They say we're making things up to get more protection." She did her best to contain her obvious bitterness, but it's impossible to disguise. Barlocke brought his hand up to his chin, absorbing the situation.

"Give me a moment to convene with my colleagues," he said. He turned, putting a hand on both Marsh and Hyram, guiding them some paces away. Once they were out of earshot, they leaned in somewhat. "What do you think?"

"What does 'convene,' mean?" Marsh Silas asked hastily.

"To gather up," Hyram answered impatiently, "we've got to get after the heretics and retrieve the children. The longer we linger, the more time we give them to ship them over to Fortis. If they get there we'll never see them again!"

"The rest of the company isn't here yet, sir." Marsh Silas continued, "it's just us. And we won't be able to get the Chimeras over those ridges. It'd be an on-foot job without any support."

"One platoon against numbers unknown doesn't bode well for us," Barlocke put in. "Our only advantages, from what I can ascertain, are that we have plenty of ammunition and they'll be slowed by their prisoners. Those sound like good odds to me and I've never paid much mind to enemy numbers." All three looked up, past the barracks. It was seated at the base of a steep, rocky incline. Having been briefed on the topography days ago, all knew it was going to be a tough walk across the ridges that lined the coast. Pitfalls, boulders, rises and descents. Traversing ridge after ridge after ridge was going to tire the men out, especially the heavies who were going to have to haul their cumbersome weapons over the terrain. When contact was finally made, their strength would certainly be sapped. More so, they would have to put extra care into their shooting if they were to bring any of the children home alive.

Barlocke continued to think. Marsh didn't like the thought of letting heretics drag away helpless children as much as the next man. But how could they conduct a rescue if they were weary? But there was a glow in Hyram's eyes. Fickle nervousness that seemed to cling to him everywhere𑁋on the parade grounds, on the march, in battle, even within the barracks𑁋was at that very moment, absent. Something was possessing him; a great surge of indignation and intensity filled him head to foot. Wavering from pity to kindness to animosity since the junior officer first arrived, Marsh Silas couldn't help but feel a speck of pride. Or at least a fraction of delight now that the officer was finally finding his boots. Perhaps his acrimonious speech finally drove the point home. More than likely, Marsh considered gratefully, the Emperor was shining upon him.

Rubbing his chin, Barlocke nodded. "I think we could do it. Lieutenant?"

"I say we go. Now."

The Inquisitor eyed him, obviously surprised but ultimately impressed by this new vigor. A wariness still remained intermixed in his dark eyes, however. He turned to the platoon sergeant.

"What's say you, Marsh Silas?"

All the risks washed over him. Subjecting Bloody Platoon to the trek and subsequent peril did not sit well with him. Ending the day before it began, before they bit off more than could chew, seemed a better prospect to him. But leaving those kiddies to whatever fate the heretics planned for them equally terrified and infuriated him. Was a single platoon a conceivable amount of men to conduct their operation, though? There was hardly a plan! Tramp over the ridges to the Point, kill the Chaos-infected lot, and deliver the kidnapped souls back to their families. Standing up straight, he cast his gaze towards the civilians. Asiah still stood before them, clutching the white cloth he'd given her to her chest, the other hand gripping her apron. Her watery eyes connected with his own; hope filled them. He tipped his helmet back as he looked at her. Despite his mounting concerns, he couldn't refuse a mother. He could see his own standing there instead of her, wondering where her missing son was. A thought filtered through his mind, recalling the only order Hyram gave him after the Battle of Army's Meadow.

"Sir," he said, bending back down into the three-man huddle. "Some days ago you told me to stop a man from throwing stones at a dead cultist. Why?"

"Because he ought to have stopped. Because it was right of him to stop." Hyram explained after a moment. "Heretic or no, if we show such contempt for a corpse, we'll begin to lose all humanity. It was the right thing to do."

Marsh nodded for a few moments.

"Then I says let's round up the gunmen and head out."

A smile split Hyram's face and he looked at the Inquisitor, like a child hoping for his father's consent on some matter or other. It was, after all, his final decision to make as the commander. Barlocke looked at both men kindly. He placed his wide-brimmed hat atop his head and nodded.

"Let us go."

Barlocke turned and headed back to the civilians. Hyram was about to follow but Marsh took him by the arm. Confusion passed into dreadful anticipation. No doubt, Marsh though, the lieutenant thought he was about to get another lecture on that of leadership. But that wasn't what Marsh was planning.

"Lieutenant, I've got to tell you something," he said in a low voice. Still apprehensive although otherwise intrigued, Hyram leaned a bit closer. "I think that Inquisitor there may be a psyker."

Hyram blinked in surprise.

"What makes you say so, Staff Sergeant?"

"How come those heretics so suddenly dropped their guns and bent over?"

"Could have been a miracle cast by the God-Emperor. Then again, Chaos affects those it claims in strange ways. I've heard of such things, though I have not seen it with my own two eyes."

"I'd like to think as much," Marsh responded gravely. He explained the dark aura he witnessed, or rather felt, around the Inquisitor the moment before their enemies were crippled. The laser-like focus yet seeming detachment exhibited by him in that very instant which struck fear into his heart. Adding for good measure, he noted how Barlocke seemed to always have an answer ready for a question, and seemed to know what he was thinking all the time. It was uncanny how often it happened. The more Marsh Silas explained, the more he became aware of just how _present _Inquisitor Barlocke was all the time. He would disappear for a period, but the moment someone had a problem, or a question, or some event was taking place, he would suddenly appear. Like he was always watching, more than the average witch-hunter. Despite knowing little about psykers, he knew enough; they were dangerous, and one who could pry into the minds of both friend and foe alike was equally troubling.

Hyram seemed unnerved by the accusation. It was not their place to pry into the affairs of an Inquisitor, especially behind his back. Marsh Silas knew this and grew dismayed with himself yet again. Since Barlocke arrived, he felt as though he'd done nothing but break solemn rules he obeyed for the better part of a decade. All his good soldiering led up to this? Admonishing officers, fraternizing with superiors, and slandering that same superior with mere speculation? Perhaps he deserved a flogging.

But all the same, like all children brought up in the Imperium, he was taught that psykers were dangerous beings because of their connection to the Warp. Being on Cadia, he received a little more of an education on the infamous realm. Understanding the dangers of the Eye of Terror was important for Cadian sons and daughters. What exactly the Warp did, what it was made of, or its most specific risks were still unknown to him. Yet he knew the Warp was unpredictable and psykers could unknowingly bring daemons into the world. It seemed a trifle, but he knew in other Imperial realms, people knew nothing of it. Respect and fear reinforced throughout his youth, he couldn't help but feel wary of Barlocke. The Ordo Hereticus itself was charged with hunting down psykers; how did one of their prey join their ranks? It was both perplexing and foreboding.

After taking a moment to think, Hyram responded in a cool, educated fashion.

"Do we have any reason to fear him?" Marsh stared at him blankly for a moment. Hyram blinked, then said, "Besides the obvious. He is on our side. And we've both seen he's not the usual sort of Inquisitor, thank the Emperor."

"Thank the Emperor, indeed," Marsh echoed.

"Besides, I thought you two have quite the rapport."

"Rapport?"

"A good friendship."

That they did. In the time they took Army's Meadow, Barlocke was extremely friendly with Bloody Platoon, especially Marsh Silas. They took all their meals together, always joined by the crowd from that very first night they ate together. Stories were swapped, jokes told, and there was plenty of laughter. Barlocke always regaled them with humorous tales, though everyone speculated he was making some of them up. He always asked many questions, all personal. Rather than gauging them for heresy, he wanted to know about their families, their upbringing, their homes, what aspirations they had. Despite his mysterious ambiance, he was always charitable and loved to talk. Marsh couldn't help but concede to this.

"Well, I suppose we do. We talk as equals. But psykers are dangerous, even sanctioned ones." Marsh sighed. "I do not fear him, I just though I should tell you. It is something we should be aware of."

"Thank you, Staff...Marsh Silas," Hyram said earnestly, nodding and smiling. "Assemble Bloody Platoon, if you please."

Raising his voice, Marsh Silas called for the men. In good order, they formed a circle around him and Lieutenant Hyram. He gauged them, asking if they were up for a little hunt. All answered excitedly: 'we're ready!' The goal was laid out before them and they took it in stride. The same expressions of indignation flashed on their faces. How dare the heretics take the children of our homeworld away, they seemed to think. Bloody Platoon would proceed across the ridges, never leaving sight of the coast. All were assured if they kept on the ridge and kept the water in sight, they would reach the Point in a few hours. By the blessing of the God-Emperor, they may be able to catch up and catch the heretics in the open before they reached the Point. While the heavies didn't look forward to toting their equipment over the rough terrain, they were raring to go like the rest. With Bloody Platoon ready, Drummer Boy dispatched a final message to the regiment, informing them of their new mission. Captain Murga and Captain Isaev responded in the affirmative. Second Platoon was coming up behind them and would either catch up or meet them on their return. Third Platoon would be attached to 2nd Company, who would secure the road while enginseers and servitors cleared away the wreckage. Seeing as how the garrison fell to Chaos, the town was to be razed.

Some questioned what to do with the civilians before they left. At this, Barlocke quickly arrived with an answer. His speedy appearance caused both the lieutenant and the platoon sergeant to exchange a glance. None of the civilians bore signs of taint; he gauged them himself. Having grown comfortable with the Inquisitor, a few of Bloody Platoon's members asked if he could be sure. Barlocke noted those beginning to bear the corruption would complain of pains and voices in their heads. Not a single one showed either of these signs. Trusting his judgement, Hyram and Marsh decided the civilians could not stay here. In his kindness, Hyram ordered Master Sergeant Tindall to ferry the civilians back to base with his Chimeras as well as escort the Basilisks the rest of the way.

But before the civilians mounted up, they waited to see Bloody Platoon off. Ecstatic they were accepting the mission, they made a line as the troops began marching past the barracks and cheered them.

"Hurrah for Bloody Platoon!" they cried. "Praise the God-Emperor!"

Bolstered by their confidence, the men of Bloody Platoon couldn't help but smile as they walked out. Despite their dire mission, they were met with continued smiles and happy remarks. It felt good to be a Cadian Guardsman! As he walked along the side of the column, Marsh tipped his helmet to Asiah. In return, she briefly ran over, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. When he passed, she did the very same to Lieutenant Hyram. As Barlocke passed, she let him walk, but bowed respectfully all the same. It was under her hopeful, tearful eyes, that Bloody Platoon left.

###

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Bloody Platoon labored up and over another ridge. Black rocks coated crests, slopes, and formed little jagged falls and cliffs. Huge boulders dominated some spots, clusters of them so close they formed little hills and rises of their own. Worse still, there was hardly a foot of uncovered soil on the uneven terrain. Stones the size of fists, mixed with smaller pebbles, formed piles and sheets of gravel in between the bigger formations. It was nearly impossible to find a firm footing on it. Men slipped and spilled. Fleming rolled his ankle and Walmsley Minor skidded so bad he tore open a pant leg and bloodied his knee. Honeycutt applied a bandage as there was no time to sew up the tear.

It was becoming chillier. There were no trees along this stretch of land. Wind swept across the exposed ridgelines. Below, on their left, they could see the channel and the basin. The ridges led straight down to the water and the beach could hardly be traversed, being made of rocks itself. To their right, one would have expected flatter ground. Numerous crags, bluffs, and rock formations covered the land for some kilometers. Going around them would have taken just as much, if not more time to get to their destination, even if it was across easier territory. Still, the snow-dusted fields in the distance, rife with yellow tundra grass, seemed a treasure to the weary eyes of Bloody Platoon.

Having left their heavier gear behind it, one may have thought their hike to all the easier. To the men of Bloody Platoon, huffing and puffing under their lighter loads, it made no difference. Plodding along at their pace, going up and down, down and up, sliding and tripping, at points clawing up rocks on their hands and knees, it was just as difficult. At some points, it took three or even four men just to drag a heavier weapon up an incline.

Marsh was towards the front of the spread out column, sucking for air. He was an extremely fit man despite how often he smoked his pipe. On the march, he could carry himself over thirty-two kilometers in a day. In full gear, no less! Of course, that was on level ground. Unforgiving land like this wore even the strongest men out. He was grasping Drummer Boy's arm, helping the lad walk. The vox-operator was able-bodied, but with the vox-caster on his back, it was slow going. Sweat poured down his face.

Everyone labored on. Hyram looked ready to collapse but continued all the same, occasionally stopping for several seconds to catch his breath. Marsh couldn't help but feel some pride, or perhaps satisfaction, return. There was a new energy in the junior officer. Perhaps the goal of their mission spurred him on. Despite not being the most physically fit man, and suffering more than the others, he kept pace. Men walked with their shoulders hunched, heads low to combat the wind. Some brought the chin of their tactical hoods up to cover their lower faces. Nobody spoke. Their mouths were dry.

Ahead, he watched Bullock, acting as lead scout, amble his way up another rise. Bloody Platoon was spread out into three staggered parallel lines, maintaining intervals of several meters. Two men were out a bit farther on the left and right flanks, acting as skirmishers. To the back of the column, three more men maintained their distance, acting as a rearguard. Briefly, he looked around at the men, all panting, he couldn't help but raise his voice.

"Think of it as an extra tough drill, men," he counseled, breathless himself. "And thank the God-Emperor it's not bloody snowing yet."A few of the men laughed, which was fine by him. He continued trying to bolster their spirits, saying things like, 'Beats living a hive,' 'it's good for the lungs,' and, 'You're lucky to have me; Commissar Ghent would make you run.' The Guardsmen struggled on; those in earshot with a smile on their weary faces.

He looked over his shoulder. Most of what he could see was the ridgeline they had crossed. Far beyond, past the hill they started from, he could see the coastal road running all the way back to Army's Meadow. Squinting, he could see Kasr Sonnen atop a distant hill, its mighty walls and spires blistering with weaponry. Part of him felt sorry the folk there would be losing their homes. Another part was glad the Chaos infection was going to be wiped away for good. Not to mention those folks would finally be placed inside the Kasrs. It was for their own good; staying out here was a fool's errand. Life in the Kasrs was more martial, yes, but it was tempered by security and decent living standards.

He certainly would have wanted to be in a Kasr rather than trudging on exposed, rocky terrain. A hard drink in the tavern, hot food, music, and a soft bed. To top it off, he didn't need to worry about some cultist or xeno menace disturbing his night in the quiet sectors. High walls, automated defense systems, expert defense regiments; it was nice to have somebody else do the fighting and guarding for a change. He supposed it came from growing up in one. Remembering Polaris, he felt safe when he looked up at those armored walls. When he saw the Guardsmen patrolling the jagged streets, his heart swelled with admiration. They looked strong and disciplined, ready and proud. Out here, away from the Kasr, even if the entire regiment was there, he would have still felt vulnerable. Only the walls of a Kasr offered true security and comfort.

Bullard stopped and raised his fist in the air. The entire platoon stopped. Then, Bullard slowly lowered himself on one knee, extending his left arm up and out. Everyone sank low. Taking one last look to Drummer Boy, who nodded that he was alright, Marsh struggled up to him. It took some time, given the severe ground. More than once, he slipped on some loose stones, much to his disdain. Eventually, he reached the sniper.

"Movement, top," Bullard said, nodding up and above. To their immediate front, the ridge went gradually upwards. It wasn't so much a ridge as it was a hill. Characteristic of the ground they already covered, it was quite rocky. Boulders loomed over one another, forming pits and barriers. Observing this height, he waited for something to move. Tension clouded the air. His heart rate began to pick up. His muscles tightened, like a runner about to engage in a sprint. Like any Guardsmen, he took the time to figure out where he was going to go if the shooting started. Any Guardsman considered his surroundings𑁋find defilade and avoid enfilading fields of fire. Something big that could conceal him entirely was the best option. Before him was a great rock, big enough for three or even four men to hide behind and fire over.

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_ _Ker-thunk!_

Three autogun slugs flew through the air and a fourth struck him right in the center of his flak armor. The force was great enough to throw him on his back and knock the wind from his lungs. Autogun fire behind to stream down from the rocks above them. It was met by heavy lasfire.

"Marsh!" Bullard cried. He threw his rifle over his shoulder, and under heavy fire, dragged the gasping platoon sergeant over to the rock he singled out a moment ago. Bullets landed all around them, kicking up pebbles, striking the ground with snap-like sounds. More whizzed and hissed by his head. Still struggling to find his breath as Bullard dragged him, he saw his men ducking for cover, sliding behind rocks or diving into shallow crags. Streaks of red flew from their lasgun barrels, right over his head. Finally behind the rock, Bullard knelt beside him and shook him by the shoulder. "Are you wounded!? Are you wounded!?"

Marsh shook his head and finally gulped air. Taking his lasgun in hand, he turned so he could peek over the rock. He kept one hand on Bullard's shoulder. Raising his head, he quickly surveyed the enemy positions. He couldn't make out their entire line. All he could see were yellow muzzle flashes, appearing and disappearing from multiple spots. A barrage of bullets struck the boulder, tearing away chips. Swiftly, he ducked back down.

"Sons a' bitches are dug in," he swore. He put a finger to his vox-link. "Walmsley, Albert, suppress the crest of the hill!" he then switched to the platoon-wide link. "Watch for the muzzle flashes and focus your fire!"

With that, he turned and squeezed off several shots at the first muzzle flash he saw. After the burst, he ducked low again as the heretics responded in kind. Bullard was struggling to aim his longlas and fire. The enemies above them were concentrating fire on their position. With a few hand signals, they worked out a strategy; when Marsh rose to fire, he would suppress one position, effectively marking it with deep red lasbolts. In that moment, Bullard would aim and try to silence the threat permanently. Marsh jumped up, aimed at a muzzle flash, and fired six shots in quick succession. Bullard slid the barrel of his longlas up on top of the rock, trained it on the marked target, and fired. As both Guardsmen dropped down, they witnessed a brief flurry of movement; a ragged form lit up red in the brief instant the shot connected.

Repeating the maneuver twice more, they began to receive more automatic fire. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, Marsh and Bullard made themselves as small as they could behind their rock. Slugs hit all around them, casting a spray of pebbles that clinked against their flak armor.

As the fire dwindled, he was shocked to see Inquisitor Barlocke sprinting towards him. Sliding into the position beside him, he raised his lasgun and fired, sending a tremendous beam of red energy upwards. Someone above them cried in pain.

Barlocke knelt down and gripped Marsh by the collar of his chestplate.

"Are you alright, Silas?" he asked rather urgently, his dark eyes filled with concern.

"Just got the wind knocked outta me," Marsh replied. Despite the reassurance, Barlocke seemed to give him a once over before turning his mind back to the battle.

"This hill is slowing us down," Barlocke said over the noise.

"Oh, I'll just ask them to move," Marsh grunted. Barlocke laughed. He briefly looked over his shoulder, back up at the enemy position. "We'll be sitting here shootin' each other up all damned day! We have to root'em out!"

Turning, he called for Foley, Logue, Yoxall, and Hitch. If a few could advance into the heretics' positions, they would punch right into their base of fire. Having to turn their barrels on the assault team, their fire on the rest of Bloody Platoon would slacken. Thus, the men would be free to move up and overrun the enemy position. Bullard was to remain and take out exposed targets, and Yoxall would utilize his extra grenades to clear out spider holes. Ordering suppressive fire, the heavy bolter teams raked the hillside, while Sudworth and Lowe used the autocannon to blast away at more entrenched positions. Fleming and the other grenadiers raised their weapons, launching explosives in high arcs that landed all over the hill. Some missed, others silenced another enemy shooter. Then came the tell-tale _whump _of the mortar. Olhouser and Snyder tucked themselves into a crag. Lieutenant Hyam, instead of firing his weapon, was directing their fire. Each time a shell fell upon the enemy, their fire was interrupted and a shower of stones would land on the Guardsmen's helmets below.

With his men assembled, Marsh gave one look to the hill, another to the sky, uttered a brief prayer, and vaulted over the rock. Barlocke and the others followed.

"Bloody Platoon!" they cried.

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood!"

"For Emperor and Imperium!"

Immediately, Marsh dove for another, landing hard on a sheet of rough gravel. Gritting his teeth as he crawled over the pointed rocks, he managed to get behind cover once more. Waiting for a barrage of grenades or a mortar shell, he scampered up the jagged slope, to another rock. They were only a few meters from where they started when they saw a small round object fly from behind a rock towards them.

"Grenade!" shouted Yoxall. The engineer, despite being under fire, dropped his meltagun, caught the grenade, and flung it back. It detonated in midair as he dove back onto the ground. However, two more grenades came flying towards them. This time, Barlocke stood up, flipped his queer lasgun around so that he held it by the barrel, swung, and smacked one of the grenades away. No one was able to catch the third.

"Scatter!" cried the Inquisitor. In a blur of tan and green, the men sprinted, dove, rolled, and jumped for dear life. Marsh managed to scramble forward behind a long rock that was just high enough to conceal him. The fire was becoming more intense; he could feel bullets flying right over his back. Looking around, he spotted Logue with his customized autopistol scaling a massive boulder. Foley was going around, his double-barreled shotgun ready. Hitch had gone farther than the others; he was higher up, overtaking Marsh Silas on the left flank. Stopping in a nestle of rocks, he fired four volley's of three-shot bursts from his plasma gun. White-blue bolts sheared across the rocks. The plasma gunner then lobbed a frag grenade at an enemy position Marsh could not see. It went off, sending rocks and dust in all directions. Yoxall went several meters back down the face of the hill. He lobbed a grenade and then rushed up, trying to move towards Marsh Silas. Then went Barlocke, moving fast and low, with that odd shotgun of his. He was but a dark flash. Marsh lost sight of him in the rocks.

He continued his struggle up, clawing and sliding from rock to rock. Bullets struck the landscape all around him. Gasping and grunting with exertion, he labored to another boulder, to another, and another. Bullets passed through this pant legs; he could _feel _them just passing by his skin. A bullet struck his shoulder pauldron, casting yellow sparks and sending him down onto his side. He wheezed and let out a cry, one of stress, anger, and fear, rather than pain. Catching his breath, laying on his back behind a long slab of a stone, he raised his head. Immediately, a yellow flash appeared in a nook between two vertical rocks ahead of him. They struck the other side of the slab with tremendous fury, causing him to duck low and groan again. Waiting for the fire to trail off, he rose to his knee, fired, watched the red lasbolts miss because of his hasty trigger pull. There was more firing; a muzzle flash right ahead, another two above on top of a rock overhang, another to the side. Bullets smashed into his cover and Marsh ducked down, gasping.

His legs were trembling. His breath was growing ragged from fear. If he stayed, he would die. But his self-preservation instincts were kicking in, and he thought if he moved, he would die anyways. It was a terrible, vicious cycle. Innate, natural predispositions battling with training and experience. "Come on..." he breathed to himself, pounding his fist against the rock. "...come on, come on!"

The others are advancing, Barlocke is ahead of us all, and what of the men behind you, what will happen to them if you do not act, he thought to himself.

"_Come on!_"

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,138


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

Finally, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Finding his resolve, he pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it over. It exploded, silencing some of the enemy fire.

Vaulting over the rock with his bayonet raised, he charged into the nook. The work was already done, however. Squeezed in between the two rocks, the heretic was on his back, his entire front shredded by shrapnel. Little shards of metal poked out from his flesh. Not taking any chances, Marsh Silas drove his bayonet through the heretic's throat. Crouching through. he found a tight but manageable slope up between the rear of the rocks and the boulder that overlooked it. Scrambling up the sliding rocks, he immediately happened upon another heretic. Reacting quickly, he raised his lasgun and attempted to strike him with the bayonet. The bedraggled enemy knocked it away with the butt of his own autogun, then kicked Marsh right in the chest.

Marsh lost his balance, landed on his back, and slid back down the rocks into the nook. During the tumble, he lost his lasgun. Coming down after him, the heretic gripped his autogun by the barrel and swung it like a club. Sidestepping, Marsh drew his trench knife from his boot and swiped at him. The heretic was able to dodge to the side, and the two swapped positions, with Marsh's back to the narrow rocky slope and the heretic in the center of the nook.

Both stood still for a moment, gauging the other as lasbolts and bullets flew over their heads. Marsh held his trench knife in his right hand, his other hand was extended out and ready. The heretic was dressed in ragged clothing, his face covered in some kind of sack hood with holes cut out so he could see. Constantly, he muttered deranged incantations. Finally, the heretic charged. Once again, Marsh dodged sideways and swung. The adamantium knuckles struck the heretic right in the mouth. Marsh could feel teeth shattering and the jaw breaking. Wailing, the corrupted foe crumbled to the ground, clutching his face. Where his mouth was, blood stained the rough hewn leather sack.

Not wasting another moment, Marsh took the corrupted being by the shoulder and dragged the blade across his throat. Gurgling and sputtering, the heretic fell face down. Wiping the blade on his thigh and sliding it back into his boot-laced scabbard, he collected his lasgun and turned. As he did, someone tackled him. Again, he lost his weapon and landed on his back. It was a flurry of flying fists, kicking feet, flailing limbs, and desperate grunting. Marsh was on his back. The heretic straddled him, raised a knife with both hands, and drove it down. He caught his wrists and using all the strength he could muster wrenched him to the side. In the tussle, the knife was lost. Marsh was feeling around, trying to find something. With a hand around the struggling heretic's neck, he found a stone and bashed it against his opponent's head.

Despite the shock, the heretic fought hard and Marsh lost the rock. From the tiny slits cut into the leather sack hood, he could see eyes glowing red. It was terrifying. Marsh wanted to slay this deformed creature, yet flee from it in the same instance. Terrible screaming filled the air, then Marsh realized it was his own voice. As he fought for control, trying to stand to get the advantage in the grapple, he saw the heretic reach and yank his own trench knife from his boot. Marsh took one hand from his neck and tried to snatch his wrist. He couldn't see the knife as the heretic was keeping his other hand on Marsh's chin, trying to force his head up while Marsh tried to look down. His fear-bound heart pounded in his chest and his sides tensed, waiting for the blade to slide into his flesh. But before it happened, someone else arrived and brought the butt of his weapon against the heretic's head. When it recoiled, Marsh fell backwards against the wall. It was Yoxall.

Using his meltagun in close quarters was too dangerous. Instead, he let it hang by the strap and drew his stub pistol. But the heretic was relentless and quick, spinning around and knocking the barrel away. Then it flung itself on Yoxall. Marsh recovered and joined the grapple from behind, throwing his arms under the heretic's armpits and forcing them up. Restrained, the heretic tried to kick but it was no use. Yoxall drew his own blade, stormed forward, and drove it into the heretic's heart several times. The body went limp and Marsh dropped it. Both caught their breath for a few moments, hunched over, a hand on the other's shoulder.

"We've got to keep going, Marsh Silas," was all Yoxall said, collecting the platoon sergeant's trench knife and lasgun. He kindly handed them back and Marsh nodded in gratitude.

They heard footsteps above them. Both turned and raised their weapons. A heretic stood on the rock above them, about to pull the pin on the grenade. But before anyone could react, a massive streak of red struck him in the back of the head, pulverizing his skull, melting his scalp, and shearing away his hair. The heat was so intense some of the skin rolled off his skulls and his eyeballs burst. As the body fell over, Marsh thanked Bullard over their helmet links. With Yoxall in tow, they finally scrambled back up the slope.

When they reached the top, both shouldered their weapons, gripped the edge, and clambered up. Just as they began to pull themselves over the lip, they were immediately greeted by the barrel of an autogun. Marsh and Yoxall looked up and saw a heretic, wearing a leather sack hood, staring down at them. Suddenly, a sword coated in blue energy plunged through his midsection. Blood ran down his body. A gutteral gasp escaped the heretic's throat as he went limp. Barlocke withdrew the sword quickly and kicked the dying heretic in the back. The body tumbled over the side and down the slope of tiny stones. Sheathing his sword, Inquisitor Barlocke knelt down, grabbed both Marsh Silas and Yoxall by their rear webbing, and pulled them onto the top. Without hesitation, Barlocke drew his sword once more, rotated, and beheaded a charging heretic. The fire was dwindling so Marsh took a moment to look back down the hill. More troopers of Bloody Platoon were advancing up the hill. Men fired, ducked, fired, and then kept moving. Squad leaders barked orders, spurring their men onward.

Marsh climbed up onto the overhang. Hitch was nearby, firing at several heretics retreating from their positions. Logue was standing over a shallow crag, a foot on either side of the crevice, firing down with his custom autopistol. Foley was preoccupied, beating a man to death with the rear end of his double-barreled shotgun. Stepping to the edge, he waved to the men.

"They're giving way!" He hollered, "Move it you gunmen, move it!"

He was met with cries of 'Bloody Platoon!' and 'For the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third!' The first to reach their position was Color Sergeant Babcock, pistol in one hand, flag in the other. Behind him came Queshire, then Fleming, followed by Bullard with an autopistol, and half a dozen other troopers. They advanced against the heretics, who were falling back and firing at the same time. Their shots were too hasty and went high. Pressing forward, Marsh and Bloody Platoon took their time aiming and firing, skewering many enemies as they tried to turn and shoot. Dozens fell as their positions were overrun. Those who stayed were bayoneted in their holes, screaming madly.

As everyone gathered at the top of the hill and proceeded to the other side, they saw the heretics trying to take up new positions below. Marsh saw no reason to engage in a chase. Having the advantage of high ground, he could see where every single enemy fighter was located. Calling the grenadiers forward, they launched their ordinance with deliberation. One after the other, every holdout was blown apart by grenades. Bullard scored a few kills with his longlas, and as the heavy weapons teams regrouped, the heavy bolters and autocannons tore up the few trying to escape to cover beyond the bottom of the slope.

Marsh watched as the last foe fell, shot in the back by so many heavy bolter rounds that his clothes disappeared and the flesh from his bones was sheared away. "Cease fire!" he called, waving the flat of his hand up and down. Barrels grew quiet, save for a few more shots. Marsh hardened his voice, "I said cease firing!" Finally, all was quiet save for their haggard panting. "Anybody hit?"

Several Guardsman spoke up, including Sergeant Mottershead. Marsh turned to face him. He took an auto slug through the upper part of his arm. It was a clean, in-and-out wound. Honeycutt began to tend to it. Marsh approached.

"Think you can manage?"

"Course' I can," said the sergeant boldly. Marsh nodded and joined Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke. Both looked back down the way they had come. The hillside was blasted by grenades and burned by plasma and laser fire. Smoke rose from several crags and holes. Dead heretics littered the landscape.

Marsh tipped his helmet back and looked at the Inquisitor.

"Guess you be keepin' your promise, then?"

Barlocke smiled at him.

"A promise made cannot be undone."

"It's a miracle of the God-Emperor," added Hyram. "A miracle of miracles."

"Marsh Silas!" came a call. Marsh whirled around. It was Bullard, standing at the other edge of the hill. He, the lieutenant, and the Inquisitor hurried over. The sniper was looking through his scope when they approached. Lowering his weapon, he pointed in a chopping motion with his hand. "There, dead ahead."

Raising his magnoculars, he saw some distance away, their target. The Point was just a scattering of dilapidated buildings. Jutting into the water was a ramshackle dock, slapped together from wood that looked more fit for a bonfire than any significant structure. From what he could see, there were a few sheds, some kind of shack, a half-destroyed blockhouse, and a small warehouse. Only the two latter structures were built from rockcrete. He lowered his magnoculars briefly, lips pursed, eyes scrutinizing.

Just how many landings, camps, and towns were there in the quiet sectors, he wondered. Yes, people migrated here to avoid areas on Cadia that were constantly besieged or prone to hostile landings. But these little steads, out in the wilds and flatlands, without the security of the Kasrs, were doomed to corruption. While sons and daughters of Cadia lived in the towns, he was beginning to think they were the true dangers to the quiet sectors. A booming preacher from the Kasr Polaris chapel of his youth, came to mind. 'Isolation breeds heresy!' he thundered. Something needed to be done to keep these towns in check, lest these disorganized, spread out rabbles all turn to Chaos.

"Wait, let me see," Barlocke insisted suddenly. Marsh handed him the magnoculars. Peering through the scope, he saw Barlocke's face pale. "I see the enemy party; they're forcing the children into that warehouse."

"Why force them there?" Hyram asked. "Heretics don't care for the cold or the wind."

"They're either using it as a defensive point against us, or it serves as some processing plant while they await transport. It's as I've feared; they're corrupting those on the mainland and taking them to Fortis, building...look there, to the water."

Everyone turned. Far out in the basin the channel led into, they could see two moderately sized, run-down vessels coming towards the shore. "We have to move now, otherwise we'll miss our chance to liberate the captives."

Marsh looked to the wounded men. Mottershead could manage but one man was shot in the thigh and another in the shoulder. Clean wounds, thank the God-Emperor, but moving quickly was out of the question for them. And the heavy weapons teams, strong and capable as they were, were utterly exhausted. Having to haul their equipment so far sapped their energy and if he ordered these men to run the rest of the way they would collapse. It was only a little less than a kilometer from the hill to the Point. He took the magnoculars back from Barlocke and observed the Point again. It sat at the literal end of the rock formations, ridges, and crags that plagued them since their journey began. The blockhouse was nearest to the dock, with sheds and huts in between, and the warehouse with the children farthest from the dock. Between the rocks and the flatter ground the buildings sat on was a long, deep ditch that ran all the way to the water.

He lowered the magnocular.

"Lieutenant, Inquisitor, I think I might have a plan."

Barlocke's face lit up and he smiled wide at the platoon sergeant.

"Excellent," he said, very satisfied with this suggestion.

Marsh Silas laid it out in plain terms: the wounded and the heavy weapons teams would remain at the top of the hill as a fall back position for Bloody Platoon and a rally point for Second Platoon. Taking only one of the Heavy Bolter teams𑁋Walmsley's Major and Minor𑁋they would proceed quickly and take up positions in the ditch at the foot of the Point. Here, Bloody Platoon would establish a base of fire and suppress the buildings. Once they gained the advantage, First and Second Squad, the latter personally led by Marsh Silas in place of Mottershead, would flank and assault the warehouse. Third Squad would remain with the heavy bolter team. Once the children were secure, they would retreat back to the ditch and fall out in sequence. First Squad and the specialists would leave first with the children. Third Squad and the Command Squad would then fall back. Then the Walmsley's would follow and finally, Marsh and Second Squad would bring up the rear. Bloody Platoon would conduct a tactical withdrawal back to the hill under the cover of their heavy weapons and hold out for Second Platoon. Second Platoon was maintaining contact via vox-caster and was moving as fast as they could. Once they arrived, Second Platoon would escort Bloody Platoon out of the hot zone.

All were assembled around Marsh Silas as he delivered his hurried speech. Everyone understood and Barlocke seemed positively impressed. It was unnerving to Marsh; the Inquisitor seemed delighted, even giddy, that he devised the plan.

But Marsh Silas returned his mind to the mission. Standing up and cycling a fresh charge pack, he looked at the men.

"Any questions?"

"No, Marsh Silas!" they yelled.

"Are you ready!?"

"We're ready!"

"Fall out, double-quick!"

###

The final kilometer was rapidly covered. Despite the stiff terrain, the many pitfalls and obstructive rocks, and their own exhaustion, Bloody Platoon moved as fast as they could. All seemed to understand the urgency of their task, the lives that were depending on them. Even the simplest Guardsmen among them was utterly absorbed in the gravity of the mission. Huffing, Marsh Silas barreled on as fast as his legs could carry him. As they neared the Point, the buildings growing larger and larger in their sight, he kept glancing at the two approaching boats. While he prayed to the God-Emperor they were only coming to extract those heretics on shore, his gut warned him that there were more enemy fighters on board those unseaworthy vessels.

He looked forward. Barlocke was in the lead. They were closing in, almost upon the long ditch. No sentries were posted by the heretics. But as they approached, he heard the _crack _of an autogun, followed by a series of pops. For a moment, he saw muzzle flashes in the windows of the shacks.

As sergeants bellowed orders, the men stormed into the ditch. Some jumped in, others slid down. Quickly, they pressed their bodies against the other side, crawled up to the crest, and began pouring fire against their targets. Marsh was beside Walmsley's Major and Minor; the pair quickly deployed their heavy bolter and began to pummel the windows with rapid fire bolt shells. Lasbolts and autogun exchanged fire between the two positions. Some of the traitors came running out to meet the Guardsmen in combat only to be ripped to shreds by Bloody Platoon's fire. Marsh began working his way up and down the firing line, pausing to take a few shots. "Aim for the muzzle flashes!" he cried. "Mark your targets before you fire! Keep up the fire, men! Cycle those weapons! Don't let up! That's it, Drummer Boy, let'em have it! Show them what a Guardsman's made of, Queshire! Keep stacking them up you Walmsley's! Raise that flag high Babcock; show the traitors who comes for them this day! You can do it, Lieutenant, just keep shooting! The Emperor is with us this day!"

Some of the heretics took cover behind crates and barrels outside the warehouse and shacks. Marsh stopped briefly to squeeze off a few shots at them.

He crouched beside Barlocke who was diligently firing his lasgun. Thick, tremendously powerful streaks of red emitted from its barrel, tearing away limbs and flesh at any target who fell under his sights. When he ducked down to reload, Barlocke stopped halfway. Marsh, feeling the balance teetering in their favor, was about to give the order for the flanking maneuver when he noticed him and looked in his direction. The Inquisitor's eyes seemed to widen and his skin paled. It was the first time he'd seen the man entertain any emotion beyond indifference and elation.

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Marsh Silas by the collar.

"They mean to kill the children!"

"What?"

"They'll kill the children! We must move now!"

"How can you𑁋"

"Silas, remember our conversation earlier this day?" Barlocke insisted, bringing them closer together. "Unity achieved through the careful application of tactics or that of the charge?"

"I do, Inquisitor, I do!"

"Order the charge now!"

Marsh felt a pit in his stomach grow. There was no time to ask questions, no time to consider what would happen.

"First and Second Squads, stand to!" The men looked puzzled but ceased firing and stood up. "On guard!"

"Hurrah!" went the men, raising their bayonets and turning slightly. Slinging his lasgun over his shoulder, he drew his sword and autopistol.

"Chaaarge!"

"Bloody Platoon! For the God-Emperor!" the men cheered and stormed up out of the ditch. Marsh was with them, his sword raised high. Barlocke and Drummer Boy were to his left, Hyram behind him, and Babcock to his right. Roaring, they ran for the warehouse. Despite the enemy autogun fire coming at them, the men rushed on, covering the short patch of flat ground in seconds. Not one of them fell. Like an ocean wave, they swarmed over the meager defenses of the heretics, bayonets poised, and ran them through. Marsh vaulted over a crate and slashed a heretic across the chest, knocking him to the ground, and lanced him through the heart. Drummer Boy kicked a traitor in the stomach; the blow forced the foe against the warehouse wall and the vox-operator proceeded to disembowel him with the bayonet. Fleming butchered one enemy with the bayonet on the end of his grenade launcher. He then turned and fired point-blank into one running at him. With a fleshy _thump_, the grenade disappeared into the heretic's chest and knocked him down. Babcock swirled around in the midst of three heretics, stabbing and slashing with his sword in one hand, and swinging the regimental colors in the other. Marsh joined him and dispatched the foes, cutting them down from behind.

"First Squad hold position!" Marsh ordered once they cleared the makeshift barricade. Before he could even order Second Squad to breach the warehouse, Barlocke kicked down the wooden door and stormed in with his shotgun. Reacting, Marsh followed him in.

The inside of the warehouse was dark and dank. Some rotting wooden crates of many different sizes were crowded in one corner. Puddles dotted the cracked floor. Some grass attempted to squeeze through the little cracks. Only a barrel filled with burning wood in the center cast any light. Cluttered around it were the children, numbering around thirty, clutching one another in pure terror. Standing with their backs to the entrance were three heretics clutching autopistols. One was another corrupted priest who was bellowing some incantation. Surprised, they turned around to fire. Bloody Platoon was faster; Marsh charged forward and bayoneted the traitor on the left. Babcock squeezed by Barlocke and cut down the one on the right. The Inquisitor took the foul priest in the center, slamming his fist across his jaw, turning him around, and thrusting the power sword through his back.

Lieutenant Hyram came through the door with several troopers.

"Round them up, quickly!" He ordered. Men shouldered their weapons and scooped them up, putting a child under each arm. Others put a third on their back. Hyram himself picked up the last two children and followed the other men out.

Those who remained outside of the warehouse provided cover fire as the men holding and ushering the children dashed back for the ditch. One of the repurposed boats was closing in on the dock. Marsh could see heretics standing at the rail, wielding knives, swords, and autoguns. Over the noise of gunfire, he heard Walmsley Major call out to him.

"If that boat lands they'll be over us in seconds!"

Despite the numerous faces lining the railing, he knew there was more in the bowels of the boat. But they left the heavy weapons at the hill and the majority of the grenadiers were carrying the kids.

"Arnold!" he shouted at Yoxall, who was in the ditch still. "Fleming! With me!"

The three men charged across open ground, passing by the occupied shacks, sheds, and the enemy blockhouse. Bullets thudded into the hard ground by their feet as they ran. Bloody Platoon provided suppressive fire; the fury of their weapons increased and he could feel the sheer volume of so many hot barrels in the air.

As they made their sprint, Yoxall and Marsh Silas each produced a Krak grenade. The boat was drawing closer to the dock, and the heretics on board were now hanging from the railing, prepared to jump off as soon as their vessel stopped. Soon the three troopers ran onto the dock.

"Ready!" Yoxall cried and the two men plucked the pins. The platoon sergeant raised his right hand above his head, extended his left arm, took ten running paces and lobbed the grenade over the railing of the boat. Yoxall followed suit. They beat a retreat back to Fleming at the beginning of the dock. The grenades exploded on the deck, sending splinters, limbs, and shrapnel skyward. The disembarking heretics were engulfed. The dinky fishing boat's back was broken and it began to settle into the water. For good measure, Marsh ordered Fleming to switch to Krak grenades, and pepper the boat. Multiple blasts tore through the sinking hulk, and several more were lobbed at the second ship, destroying the pilothouse. They victoriously fisted each other's shoulder pauldrons; they bought Bloody Platoon time.

The three got back to the ditch, on the right side of the Walmsley brothers. They continued to fire at the shacks and the blockhouse, which were still throwing hot lead their way. The other boat was approaching still. It was time to go. Marsh hollered the order and in sequence, the squads began to pull away from the long ditch. Some continued to carry the children on their backs or in their arms. Older children ran side by side and the Guardsmen protected them with their bodies. Seeing Bloody Platoon was trying to slip away, the heretics from the few structures began to appear and barrel towards their position. Most were cut down by the heavy bolter fire but they kept coming. The bodies kept dropping, getting closer and closer to the edge of the ditch.

Marsh turned and began walking behind the last few men remaining.

"Get out!" he cried. "Get out, get out, get out!" He tore at the men's collars and webbing, pulling them back, nearly throwing them up out of the ditch. The Walmsley's collected their weapon; it was a laborious process. Marsh and Yoxall stayed, firing madly into the enemy to cover them. His lasgun and the demolition expert's sidearm weren't enough. The enemy began to close in. They braced for a melee.

A series of heavy shots behind them wiped out the line of charging heretics. They fell almost in a perfect line, their bodies riddled by incendiary rounds. Behind them, Barlocke stood with his shotgun poised. He shouldered the weapon and pulled Marsh and Yoxall out of the ditch along with the Walmsley brothers. They caught up with the others, engaging in a series of run-and-gun fights with the pursuing heretics. Bloody Platoon was staggered over an area of two hundred or so meters. The squad ahead of the rearguard would hold position for a time, providing cover for the rearguard until they caught up. Once those Guardsmen pushed ahead, they would halt and cover the new rearguard. Organization was on the verge of breaking down; most of the squads were together, but the Specials were scattered among them and the Walmsley's didn't have enough time to set their weapon. Everyone was yelling and pointing and shooting. Behind them, the heretics pursued with devilish speed. Many discarded their weapons, striving just to catch up and slow Bloody Platoon. Watching them scramble up on all fours, snarling like animals, their faces covered in sack hoods, horrified Marsh Silas. He wanted to get away! Far away, as far as possible! Training kicked in, the experience of worse battles. He remained cool but urged the men to move faster over the difficult terrain.

_Whump! _He heard the cough of the mortar; a sign they were now in range of the heavy weapon teams on the hill. The shell exploded behind them, killing several heretics and sending rocks skyward. The Heavy Bolter and Autocannon opened fire, forcing the pursuers down to the ground as they struggled after Bloody Platoon. Keeping low, the Guardsmen managed to scale the hill and reach their comrades at the top. Everyone slid into cover, embedding themselves in or against rock formations. Marsh found himself by a large boulder; on the left side the Walmsley's set up the tripod and were firing their heavy bolter downwards. Babcock was on the right, still holding the colors and firing with a pistol. Drummer Boy and Yoxall were also present, the former prone atop the rock. Someone gave Yoxall a lasgun to use instead of his meltagun.

On the enemy came, throwing themselves up the hill, cackling and shrieking. Wave after wave broke upon the rocks, cut down by lasbolts, riddled by autogun slugs, torn by fragmentation grenades, or obliterated by mortars. An entire group, nearly two dozen's worth, swarmed over a rock. Sudworth and Lowe trained their Autocannon on them and opened fire; those heretics simply fell apart. Heads, arms, legs, feet, hands, everything just tore up. Blood splattered the stone and the bodies piled up on and around it. Still, they drew closer. Clawing over dead bodies, they seemed like rabid animals.

Marsh fired and reloaded as fast as he could. Listening to the cacophony of lasbolts and gunfire, detonating grenades and exploding mortar shells, the clatter of heavy weapons, he thought he may go deaf. Such sounds he was used to, but seeing the children cower behind their thin line filled him with dread and determination.

The enemy was getting closer. So close men were going to their sidearms rather than reloading. The heretical dead seemed to form a sheet below the hill's crest. More came at them. Just how many there were from the shanty and the boats!? On and on, one after the other, they charged upwards.

Fire, fire, fire! Hasty reload. Fully energized charge packs were running low. Precious seconds were wasted, digging in his kit bag for a fresh one. Improvise; he threw a fragmentation grenade, a second one, and then his last. All their extra ammo rationing mattered naught. The sheer weight of enemy numbers was draining all they carried. Soon, the bayonet would decide the battle.

"Second Platoon, for the Emperor, the Imperium, and the Three-Thirty-Third!"

Reinforcements arrived; Second Platoon surged through Bloody Platoon's ranks, whooping and shooting. Down the hill they charged, their bayonets poised. The disorderly front rank of the attacking heretics disappeared beneath their bayonets. All behind them were dispatched in the melee, rooted out by explosives, or gunned down when they attempted to return to the shanty. Overhead, a wing of Vulture gunships screamed by. They zeroed in on the Point and razed the entire shanty with rockets. The barrage consumed the docks and the rusty boats driven upon the shore. In less than a standard minute, the Point was naught but burning bones.

Bloody Platoon cheered their comrades as they mopped up the enemy. Men rose to their feet, tipped their helmets back, and inhaled the cool air. Babcock climbed atop the rock, stepped in front of Drummer Boy, and raised the colors high. Drummer Boy took off his helmet and smiled up at the fluttering flag. At the rear of the rock, the Walmsley brothers stood and lit lho-sticks, while Marsh and Yoxall stood just to the side of it, gazing down at the battleground. Thin trails of smoke rose from mortar craters. Parts of the hill were blasted black by explosives. Rigid corpses covered the stones. Boulders were drenched with blood.

Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram walked up beside Marsh Silas and Yoxall. The former seemed quite pleased, though the latter just appeared relieved. For a while, they watched Second Platoon drive the remaining enemies off the hill. None survived the counterattack. Once the area was secured, Second Platoon's Lieutenant Comstock approached. He was a robust Cadian, with bright violet eyes and a scruffy chin.

"We could see you fighting as we approached," he said to Lieutenant Hyram, "that was mighty fine soldiering."

"It was thanks to the God-Emperor that we survived this day," the junior officer responded, then he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "as well as the Inquisitor and Marsh Silas."

"The lieutenant is modest," was all Barlocke said on the issue. Comstock nodded.

"Well, the boys saw that this hill ain't got a name on the map besides a number. So we's taken to calling it Hyram's Hill."

Lieutenant Hyram seemed to straighten up, raising his chin slightly. His face grew red, as if he were embarrassed. Marsh scrutinized him for a moment, spit, and turned. Bloody Platoon overhead the exchange and were staring at their commanding officer. Not in envy, but in disdain. Such glowering animosity radiated from the dirty, fatigued faces that Marsh found his own overshadowed. As much as he wished to join them in collective loathing, he decided to spur them to action.

"Come on now, men. Gather the kiddies up, and let us home."

###

It was a longer, slower march back over the ridges. It wasn't until the sun began to set that they reached the demolished town and were back on the road. Bloody Platoon and Second Platoon passed the burned out hulks of the Basilisks from the firefight earlier. As they proceeded down the road, they linked up with Third Platoon, patrolling some distance away. No one complained about the march back to base. Chimeras or even a dust off may have been faster, but Cadians were proud Guardsmen. Infantrymen to the core, they weren't lazy tithed men who whined to be picked up and dropped off just because their feet were sore. Years of marching made the experience limbo for their legs. Automatically, their legs moved like the mechanical arms of a foundry assembly line. Even the men who bore wounds to their legs managed to keep pace. Cadian strength was the core of their endeavour, though pain medicine from Doc Honeycutt's kit bag deserved credit as well.

Ragged, dirty, and tired, they marched in good order down the road. On level, paved ground, it was akin to a stroll when compared to the slog over the ridges. As per company formation, Bloody Platoon took the lead, with Second Platoon in the center, and Third Platoon acting as rearguard. Bloody Platoon formed around the children, grouped together in two parallel rows. Nobody really spoke, aside from a few ushering the children on. Yet they were in good spirits. All their adrenaline faded away, replaced by the relief of survival and having saved the children.

Looking at the little ones, Marsh felt more satisfaction than he had in years. Mulling it over, he came to realize he was never tasked with such a rescue mission. In the past, the regiment was dispatched to rescue other units and during sieges they'd put themselves between civilians and the enemy. But actually setting off and plucking sons and daughters of the Imperium from the clutches of Chaos provided him with something more than satisfaction or pride. Contentedness settled over him, a satisfaction with himself as a Guardsman and a man of the Imperium. All he could say to his men was, 'We've done some good work today, men.'

Moving up and down, he checked on the men. As he went back to inspect the rear, he noticed one of the children lagging behind the main group. He was a small lad, no more than seven or eight, with sandy blonde hair and violet eyes of a true Cadian. His eyes were downcast and he kept covering his ears with his palms. Marsh walked up beside him and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.

"What's the matter, little soldier?" he asked kindly, flashing his crooked smile. The boy looked up and lowered his hands.

"I hear scary voices in my head."

Something frigid pierced Marsh's soul. His smile faded and his eyes widened. Slowly, he stood up and backed away. He looked at the other children, and could see them covering their ears, slowing down, muttering to themselves.

"Halt!" Marsh called. Everyone stopped and turned, puzzled. Some of the kids seemed to cower, and a few Guardsmen went to comfort them. "Don't touch them, that's an order!" Marsh barked. Quickly, he went to Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram, who looked utterly confused. In a low voice, apart from the others, Marsh explained the revelation. Hyram's face paled and Barlocke grew grim. Before anyone could speak, the Inquisitor ordered Second and Third Platoons to proceed without them. Lieutenant Comstock and Lieutenant Savidge of Third Platoon knew better than to argue with an Inquisitor, so they hastily moved their men out. Marsh watched them until they were out of sight.

"No, impossible!" Hyram hissed. "How could they be corrupted so quickly?"

"To even consider corruption endangers yourself to it," Barlocke whispered. "We shall speak no more of it."

"Can we be sure that all the kiddies are corrupted, Inquisitor?" Marsh Silas asked. Barlocke stared at children, his eyes darkening. There appeared to be a certain power to them, not unlike the kind Marsh witnessed earlier in the day. A murky aura radiated from him, unsettling the platoon sergeant.

"Line them up in there," Barlocke eventually said, his eyes returning to normal. He nodded towards the roadside ditch.

"Wait, what if we fetched the priest? Could he not cure them, turn them back to the light?" Hyram pleaded. "Can we merely contain them until the Ecclesiarchy can absolve them of𑁋"

"This is their only absolution, Lieutenant." Inquisitor Barlocke rested his hand on his holstered pistol. Hyram seemed on the verge of tears. Barlocke paid him no more mind and turned to the platoon sergeant. "Marsh Silas, give the order."

Reluctantly, Marsh called on Bloody Platoon to force the children into the ditch. Prodded by bayonets, they entered the ditch. The sergeants made them line up, then kneel. Marsh's heart sank as he listened to the children snivel and cry. None had turned yet, but he knew they would. It began with voices, he knew that much. When someone could hear those voices, they were doomed.

Upon Barlocke's orders, Bloody Platoon readied their weapons and each man stood above one of the children. Looking up and down the platoon, Marsh could see the reluctance etched into their fatigued features. All understood what was to happen if these children were left alone, the thought being the only force moving them to draw their weapons. Hyram stood along the ditch, despairing, one hand over his mouth, the other clutching his collar. Beside him was Drummer Boy, who was leveling his lasgun.

"Drummer Boy!" he yelled. The vox-caster turned. Marsh waved him over. When he was beside him, he squeezed his shoulder. "Methinks the Lieutenant's getting a call from the regiment."

"No one is hailing us."

"I thinkthe Lieutenant is getting a call from the regiment," Marsh repeated, low and stern. "You best call him over."

Drummer Boy stood quietly for a moment, perplexed. Then he blinked.

"Lieutenant, regiment is on the vox!" he yelled. Hyram cast one look back towards the children and slowly made his way over. Marsh passed him, approached the ditch, sliding his autopistol from his chest-laced holster. When he stood at the edge, he found the boy he spoke to moments ago. Looking into his eyes, he could see something moving. The violent irises seemed to be breaking apart, floating about the entirety of his eyes, until there was no more white and the pupil began to disappear. Murmuring prayers, Marsh looked down the line. He was on the very end. Everyone else stood terribly still, their arms stretched out, weapons pointed downwards. Behind them, Tatum stood ready with his flamer. No grave awaited the corrupted. Below in the ditch, the children were despondent. Their eyes were glowing vividly. One or two began to chatter some Chaos-infused babble. Some snarled at the troops. Marsh slowly looked to his left. Inquisitor Barlocke stood at the edge of the ditch with one hand raised in the air. He waited, waited, and waited. Then, his hand dropped.

The after-action report of the rescue mission, known colloquially as 'Hyram's Action,' was composed by Inquisitor Barlocke in Lieutenant Hyram's stead. At the very end of the report, the following was stated, '...First Platoon, First Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, did their duty.'

* * *

**Word Count: **6,451


	9. Part II: Chapter 9

Part 2: Chapter 9

* * *

It was a silent march back to camp.

As the sun finally began to sink behind snow-capped hills, the only sounds to be heard were distant artillery and Bloody Platoon's booted feet marching on the pavement. In the fading light, they were a shadowy mass. Fifty men, expressionless, rigid in frame, moved in perfect, mechanical unison. From the grimy column rose a smell of body odor, burnt metallic stink from overheated barrels, and the musky powder scent of autoguns.

In a short time, the temperature dropped. Cadia was a multi-biome planet, hosting subarctic climates such as theirs. It was cold for most of the year with brief, warm summers. There was little rain but snowfall was frequent. Predicting the weather was an impossibility. Even after the long hike from Hyram's Hill, their lasgun barrels still kept some warmth.

Marsh Silas strode beside the column, rather than at its head. It was a position a platoon sergeant ought to take, to keep the platoon in order. At the front of the column he could see Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke. Only Hyram walked differently from the men. All else kept their heads raised as if on the parade ground, with one hand on the strap of their weapons and the other swinging solidly at their side. Hyram's head hung low, his shoulders sagged, and his feet barely kept up with the rhythm of the march. It was an un-soldierly sight. On any other evening, Marsh would have been outraged to see a man behave in such a way even if he was outranked. Bloody Platoon never marched in such a disorderly fashion and to see their commanding officer do so was a disgrace.

But he wasn't going to push whatever grace the God-Emperor granted him and berate his superior officer again. Spineless as he was, Hyram displayed some energies during the day's fighting. Saving those children electrified him, drove him to haste, and empowered his voice above the battle din. For the first time since he arrived, the man actually _ordered _Guardsmen about. Fleeting as such capability was, Marsh wasn't going to risk antagonizing him again. Once was enough and he believed himself to have been quite clear. Marsh Silas was a man of action, able to overcome his fears and perform his duty. Sometimes, he was even eager for the fight, if just to get it over with. And if need be, like any disciplined Cadian, he would sacrifice himself in the heat of battle for his Emperor and his comrades. At heart, however, he was a rather cautious man. Or at least, he did his best to be. Action completed the mission and defeated the foe. Prudence kept him alive. As loyal and diligent a servant he was of the God-Emperor, Marsh thought himself more useful alive than sacrificing himself in a singular instance of combat.

Someone coughed. By sound alone, he could tell it belonged to Hitch. It was the first sound any man made since the order to move out was given. Marsh glanced at Bloody Platoon. Their movement was immaculate, though their seemingly emotionless faces spoke more to Marsh Silas than tears. More so, it was their eyes. Were it a moonless night, their faces would have been entirely obscured by the envelope of darkness. The moon was out tonight, however, obscured every so often by passing clouds. When it was clear, he could see the men's faces very clearly. All looked forward, yet saw nothing. They stared into a middle distance, or perhaps a nothingness that all disturbed souls were privy to. An empty gaze, betraying a mind plagued by thought. Since its formation, the 1333rd Cadian Regiment dispatched countless enemies from Eldar infiltrators to overconfident Ork WAAAGHs. Yet their most common enemy, those subservient and twisted by Chaos, proved to be their most hated foe. Never in the line of duty had they hesitated to pull the trigger on servants of the Archenemy. To eliminate one was fulfilling a Guardsman's most sacred duty. Yet this time was different, even if they all knew it _was _their duty. Tonight, Bloody Platoon did not hesitate when given the order to fire. But seeing the Ecclesiarchy-sanctioned holy totems they held in their fingers𑁋silver chains with little silver, plain Gothic crosses, and prayer beads𑁋told him it was a difficult order.

The wind pushed at their backs, carrying the scent of burnt flesh from back down the road. After the executions, Tatum was ordered to burn the bodies in the ditch. All the little bodies were engulfed and filled the air with a stench familiar to Marsh Silas, although this time he found it harder to bear. When the inferno finished, they drew their nine-seventies and buried them there in the ditch. Ever since they left, the smell of roasting flesh lingered in his nostrils. To hell with light discipline, Marsh thought for the first time in his life, as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his ebony pipe. From another pouch, he produced tabac leaves. Tucking it into the bowl proved difficult. His hands were trembling. A few small shreds of tabac drifted from his exposed fingertips as he attempted to poke them in. Muttering to himself, he pulled some more and filled the bowl. Drawing a strike anywhere match, he pulled the small whetstone from his kit bag. Hands still quivering, he swiped it against the stone several times. It failed to light. He flicked it away, drew another match, and struck. This time the end briefly lit, but was gone in a moment. Cursing softly, he threw it, and drew another match. Again, his shaking hands failed him. Aggravated, he inhaled sharply, and the smell of roasting flesh came back stronger. His stomach lurched and he stopped walking.

He didn't notice Inquisitor Barlocke looking over his shoulder. He approached and took the whetstone, drew a match of his own, and struck it. It lit without issue. Cupping his hand around the pipe, he dipped the match inside. Marsh puffed a little and a thin trail of smoke drifted up. Waving the match until the flame flickered away, Barlocke then tossed it aside. Marsh was about to start walking again but Barlocke placed a hand on his shoulder. As the platoon passed, Barlocke drew a pipe of his own from within his coat. It was plain, plainer than Marsh's own polish pipe. Barlocke used the whetstone to light another match and began smoking as well. He only finished the process when Bloody Platoon passed by entirely.

Unable to maintain his composure, Marsh turned, walked hastily to the ditch alongside the road, bent over, and vomited. It was a difficult retch. He hadn't anything to eat all day. It dribbled into the dark soil at the bottom of the ditch. Whether it was from the horrible stink in his nostrils or the amount of movement without proper sustenance, he wasn't sure. When he was through, he spat and sat down. With his free hand, he tipped his helmet back and held his forehead. After a moment, he reached into his kit-bag and retrieved his prayer beads. Pursing his lips to hold his pipe, he clutched the beads with both hands. Barlock stood just beside him, his hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder.

"We could have gotten there sooner," Marsh breathed after he finished his prayer.

"The corruption already set in," Barlocke said, standing above him. "Their minds were too young, too fragile."

"Why the kiddies?" Marsh asked, shaking his head. "Why them? They's just a bunch a lil' kiddies. What could Chaos use them for?"

Barlocke nodded his head to the side.

"Once, on a Civilized Planet, I was tracking a band of heretics. Rumors persisted they were corrupted, but these were unsubstantiated. Sent me to check, regardless. When I got to their last known location, just a scatter of ramshackle huts, I found a small child. He was alone, huddled by a little fire in the center of a shed. When I picked him up, he pulled the pin on a grenade. Didn't see it, just heard the _clink. _Dove out of there and I was burned very badly." He paused, then made a dismissive sound. "Chaos finds a way to use everyone."

Marsh smoked briefly on his pipe, mulling the facts over. But it all came to the same outcome.

"We had'em, Barlocke. I mean we _had'em! _We got them outta there and for what? What was the point?"

Barlocke didn't answer for a time. Marsh was looking up at him; his face was concealed in shadow underneath his wide-brimmed hat.

"The fate which befell them was a blessing compared to what awaited them as Chaos thralls."

Marsh shut his eyes, trying to fill his nostrils with the smell of burning tabac. It was all he had to get the stench of scorching flesh out of his nostrils. Just the mere scent caused the entire scene to replay over and over in his mind. All he wanted was for it to stop.

"That don't make me feel no better. For once in my soldier's life, I was actually glad. I was glad! We did something we ain't ever done before. We did somethin' that was plain right. And it didn't matter." He smoked briefly. "Now all I feel is pissed off and I don't know what to do about it!" He shook his head, raising his trembling hand to his stubble-coated chin as he smoked. "Fucking Chaos-worshipping cock-sucking bastards..."

Time passed. Never in his time as a Guardsman was he or the rest of Bloody Platoon forced to dispatch a child. From the most daemonic of Chaos worshipers to weapon-less corrupted heretics, the men witnessed countless, unspeakable horrors. Terrifying as they were, it made their duty much easier to perform. This was indescribably more burdensome. Thinking as much, he exhaled and said, "It don't feel right."

"Eliminating foes of our Imperium doesn't feel right?" Barlocke asked curtly. Marsh glared up at him.

"Don't put it like that."

Barlocke seemed to shrug, his movements obscured by his long coat and the growing darkness.

"If we failed to fulfill our duty, we would have risked not just our lives, but others. Keeping them alive was not an option," he said.

"We, is it? You didn't have to pull the trigger."

"Giving an order and pulling the trigger are more similar than you may realize, Marsh Silas," Barlocke responded in a low, kind voice. "You know full well what they would have turned into.

"And I would have shot them down then."

"Are you saying it would have been easier to kill caterwauling little monsters than𑁋"

Marsh glared up at him again, silencing the Inquisitor. Barlocke was by no means intimidated by the harsh look, he surmised, but rather polite consideration. His hardened stare soon softened.

"Maybe." He sighed. "But then I start thinking, maybe it woulda been harder to see them lose their minds and become devils."

"You know as well as I, it was right."

Marsh stared into the bottom of the ditch for a great deal of time. It seemed like hours to him.

"Deep down, I know it." He looked back up at the Inquisitor. "But that don't make it any easier to swallow."

Clouds rolled in, ushered by a cold breeze. It obscured the moon, plunging Cadian into deeper darkness. After casting a glance upwards, Barlocke extended his hand and Marsh took it. Back on his feet, the two began walking after the column. Bloody Platoon was halted ahead not too far away. As they walked, Barlocke put an arm around his shoulders. He looked over at the shadow-faced gentleman, hardly illuminated by the tiny orange glow from the bowl of his pipe.

"Hard as it is, these feelings will pass. All pain passes in time. For the moment, you have to remain strong, Silas. For the sake of your men."

"About all I can be," Marsh sighed. The two men walked at a steady pace down the road until they caught up to Bloody Platoon. Lieutenant Hyram was standing to their side, watching the Inquisitor and the platoon sergeant approach. Once they were beside the platoon, the order was given to continue on. Barlocke and Marsh Silas walked alongside one another and smoked the entire way. Dull orange light emanated from their pipes.

###

Bloody Platoon crossed the bridge, snaked up the cape road, and marched through the perimeter gate of camp in good order. Just inside, Second and Third Platoons were resting. Still geared up, but with their weapons stacked together, the barrels pointing up at the night sky. Captain Murga was among them and strode out with Lieutenant Comstock and Lieutenant Savidge of Third Platoon. He greeted Marsh Silas and the men warmly, then asked for an explanation regarding their delay. It was Inquisitor Barlocke who answered, explaining in low tones the events that transpired after the company split.

Captain Murga's and the other officers' eyes widened as they listened to the report.

"Well, it's a damned shame they were corrupted. But you met the enemy, destroyed his position, and were able to damage his mobility. Furthermore, we now know the nearby settlements are being targeted. You ought to be proud."

"Bloody Platoon performed admirably," Barlocke finished, "though their spirits are low."

"I'll have Commissar Ghent speak to them."

"Unnecessary, Captain."

Murga decided not to contest this point and turned his attention back to Bloody Platoon.

"You've all earned a rest. Tomorrow we shall hold a briefing, Inquisitor, based on the information you sent along. First company, fall out." Murga was about to turn and head back to the regimental command post, but stopped halfway. A look of dread passed over him. Marsh followed his gaze. Standing just on the other side of the road were the townsfolk, waiting in a small makeshift camp constructed out of spare tents and hastily erected sheet metal sheds. Many rose from their campfires and strode cautiously towards the platoon.

Taking off his peaked cap, Murga ran a hand over his bare head. "I forgot about them. Somebody has to tell them."

"I shall," Barlocke offered.

"It should be me," Hyram said. His disposition aside, Marsh couldn't help but admire him for that. Yet he could see by the officer's trembling hands the task was going to be more challenging than he could bear. Before he dwelled on it any longer, his thoughts passed between his lips.

"I'll tell them, sir," he said. Hyram seemed too tired and depressed to resist, or even show surprise. He simply looked at Captain Murga, who only nodded before walking away. Second and Third Platoons went with him, the Guardsmen feeling the weight of the outcome upon their shoulders. When they departed, Marsh looked back towards the civilians. All were gathered now. In front of the camp fires, which cast a pale orange outline around them, they seemed to be one, living mass. A smaller crowd; undoubtedly some bore the taint of Chaos and were dispatched. Across the road, they regarded Bloody Platoon with confusion and eagerness. From their side, the Guardsmen beheld them with dismay and trepidation.

Pushing to the front of the civilian crowd was Asiah. She wore fresh garments. Gone was her dirty apron, replaced by a clean long jacket and a hooded shawl over her shoulders. The hood was scrunched down at the base of her neck. Her hair was a feathery brown tied into a rough ponytail. Many strands were loose and swayed in the ocean breeze that flooded over the camp. Her violet eyes glimmered with hope. Recognizing Marsh Silas at the head of the column, she smiled wide. To him, she appeared as charming as when they first met in the small town.

He noticed she was still holding the white cloth he gave her. When he saw it, all he planned to say vanished from his mind. Having volunteered his voice, he found he suddenly lacked one. Not just in her eyes, but all their eyes, he could see that shimmer of hope. Fooling themselves into thinking the children were rescued but sent somewhere else until arrangements could be made. To be the destroyer of their anticipation, to watch all happiness crumble at his words, Marsh wished to be anywhere else in the Imperium.

"Tell them the truth," Hyram said eventually. "Don't spare a detail. They deserve to know."

"They do, but their grief will dampen the souls of your men worse yet. Spare some words, Marsh Silas, for the men's sake. And for their own," Barlocke said, motioning towards the civilians.

"To lie to these poor wretches would be a most despicable act, Inquisitor," Hyram retorted.

"Lying and vagueness are two very different concepts, Lieutenant," Barlocke replied bluntly. Putting his hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder, he whispered, "The choice is yours, Marsh Silas."

After a moment, Marsh Silas began walking towards the civilians. As he did, he removed his helmet and clipped it to his belt. Then, he took one last puff on his pipe before he knocked it against his knee pad. The ash fell down onto his pant leg, but he didn't mind a tall. Behind him came Bloody Platoon, falling out from the column and shifting into a crowd behind their sergeant. Why they stayed he did not know; they were excused duty and could return to their bunks. Perhaps they just did not want him to deliver the news alone. On his right was Lieutenant Hyram, bracing for the worst. To his left was Barlocke, face plain, his emotions unknown except to himself. Marsh glanced at him from the corner of his eye. How he wished to steel himself like the Inquisitor. To betray no emotion, to bear such presence among men. Perhaps it was to ease the blow of the approaching despair.

He walked right up to Asiah. She reached out and took his hand in both of her's.

"Miss," he greeted. "I hope you are well, here."

"The children," she said immediately, "where are they? My boy?"

Marsh swallowed hard, his mouth turning dry. She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Miss Asiah..." he began slowly. "We found the heretics who took the kiddies and killed them all. The place they took them to has been blasted. But the kiddies𑁋the children..."

Asiah's eyes brimmed with tears. Marsh Silas put his other hand on top of her's. He leaned down to look directly in her eyes. In a gentle tone, he finally said, "they...are at rest now. Their souls are kept by the God-Emperor."

At this, Lieutenant Hyram and Bloody Platoon removed their helms and bowed their heads. Barlocke took off his hat and held it over his heart. He gave an elegant bow, rose slowly, and donned his hat once more. Then, he took Marsh by the arm and stepped away, trying to take him along. Asiah would not let go as she sank to her knees and sobbed into their hands. Ignoring the Inquisitor's tugging on his arm, Marsh Silas knelt down, slipped one hand away, and placed it around her shoulders. He stared down at the dirt, not wishing to look up the terrible wailing of the civilians in front of him. Mothers sank and fell into their husbands' arms. Fathers wept as they held their wives. Their sobbing rose into screams of grief, tearing through the night. As they cried, Marsh continued to stare down. He did not dare to meet their betrayed gazes.

Asiah continued to sob into their knitted hands. Her face rose for a moment, eyes flooded with tears. They streamed down her face, cascading like water running down a cliff. With an injured expression, she met his eyes.

"Give me back my baby..." she whispered, her voice choked. Then she sprung forward, ripping her hands away from his, and began pounding her fists against his armored chest. "Give me back my boy! Give me back my boy! He's mine, he's all I have! Give him back!"

Marsh took these blows without comment. Even on his knees, his broad frame was hardly moved by her clobbering. Suddenly she ceased, resting them flat against his flak armor. "He's got hair like yours, a little scar on his chin. Did you see him?"

He hadn't had a chance to look at all of the children. Whisking them away in the heat of battle didn't allow for a proper headcount. Nobody asked for names and none were given. Yet as he retraced the memory, difficult as it was to relive, no child with such a scar or hair color sprung to mind.

"No, Miss Asiah, I did not."

"He could yet live!" she cried. "You have to go back out there and find him! Find him!"

"Your son sleeps with the honored dead, miss," Barlocke said in a low voice. "Come, Silas."

He wanted to leave, to escape, but as this poor woman latched onto him he did not want to move. Her weeping moved him in a way that he had not experienced before. Never had Marsh despised himself and his enemy so thoroughly. For his failure, he had to atone, to withstand the bereavement of so many souls. Inquisitor Barlocke was having none of it. With a firm hand, he finally pulled Marsh Silas to his feet. As his guilt roiled inside him, Marsh let himself be taken away. Asiah remained on her knees, bent over, sobbing into her arms, clutching the white cloth in her hands in front of her as if they were prayer beads. She stayed that way and cried. Behind her, all the rest moved in a pitiful fashion, looking skyward, appealing to the heavens, entreating the God-Emperor to undo their woes.

Barlocke clamped a hand on the back of his neck and forced him to look forward. When he felt compelled to give the deprived one last glance, the Inquisitor's grip grew tighter. "Do not gaze upon them once more, man, lest the image be frozen to your mind for the remainder of your days."

It was too late, Marsh Silas thought. Too late.

Bloody Platoon was already heading back to the barracks, having splintered off one by one while Marsh knelt with the civilians. Somewhere along the walk back up to their cliffside dwelling, Barlocke disappeared. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the Inquisitor's absence. It did not matter. As he stepped into the pillbox, stuffed with ammunition, extra weaponry, and other equipment, he suddenly felt exhausted. Vitality failed him and all he wanted was to slump into his bunk. Everyone was down below before him and doffed their gear. Some wiped their faces down with cloths dampened from a canteen or took a drink of water before sliding under their blanket. A few were still kicking off their boots. Still fully ladened with his gear, Marsh walked through each comb. As he entered, he was met by tired faces and tearful eyes. Unsure of what to say, Marsh drifted through, flashing a smile, a pat on the shoulder, or a playful elbow. Some responded in kind. It was enough. In his soldier's life, Marsh found the briefest and simplest of acknowledgements was all a soldier needed at times.

Working his way through, he eventually ended in his comb. Among his friends, he felt better and greeted them warmly. Both Walmsley brothers were in their bunks. Arnold Yoxall was still unloading his gear in a deliberate, slow fashion. Honeycutt was kneeling beside Drummer Boy, who was curled on his side in his bunk. Sensing that something was off, Marsh knelt beside the medic.

"He's got the shakes again," Honeycutt whispered to him. Drummer Boy was shivering under two blankets and clutching them close to his breast. Several times this occurred before, usually after terrible battles. Despite being considered a veteran, their vox-operator was still a lad and their least experienced member next to their platoon leader. When he was confronted with these horrors, he occasionally suffered from a sort of shaking. Honeycutt, being educated in the human body, deduced it as some kind of, 'atypical adrenaline decline.'

Marsh wasn't quite sure what that meant, although he figured Drummer Boy just struggled to calm down after a fight. Adrenaline gave the body energy and when the action was over, it drained away all one possessed. Usually, a man just shivered for some minutes after the excitement ended. Perhaps it was a slower or more troublesome come down for their young companion.

Honeycutt performed a short religious mantra to help expel negative elements and soothe the soul, although this didn't seem to work. Reaching into his medical bag, he poured some water into a little bowl and then crushed some herbs in it. Swirling it with a spoon until it grew a bit thicker, he had the Boy drink it all. Again, time proved this endeavour futile. Although he did not speak, Honeycutt breathed irritably. For a long while, he stared at Drummer Boy. A blank expression gripped his rugged features.

After a time, he set what he held down and rubbed his chin. He turned to the platoon sergeant. "Make sure his legs are close together and then tuck an extra blanket around them. Heaviest one you can find." With a nod, Marsh went over to the communal chest. All the combs were equipped with a sizable chest filled with items anyone could use. These ranged from spare blankets, extra socks, sewing kits, cooking ware, and the like. When the regiment was on the move, these were looked after by the Chimera crews. Like most men in the Guard, something was given in exchange for the protection. Usually they relied on smokes or decent rations to barter for their service. On rare occasions when there was nothing worthwhile to trade, someone reluctantly handed over some spare thrones. Men in Bloody Platoon took turns doing so. Whoever's turn it was grumbled aplenty, but they knew keeping their extra supplies secured and easily transported was worth the cost. Not to mention the chest itself provided an extra seat at the table, they liked to joke.

Throwing open the chest cover, Marsh dug for the heavy blanket at the bottom. After some rummaging, he pulled it out without disturbing much else inside. Keeping the bulky brown blanket wrapped up under his right arm, he came back over. He closed Drummer Boy's legs under his standard-issue blanket. He then threw the heavy blanket over him and tucked him in tightly. "Now you put some weight on his legs," Honeycutt said.

Not bothering to object because of his mounting fatigue, Marsh knelt down once more and put his folded arms over the Boy's legs. He made sure not to dig his elbows in or crush him. Honeycutt then drew closer to Drummer Boy and ran a hand over his head. "Why don't you look at me, son?" After some time and with a little strain, the vox-operator looked at the medic. "There's a good lad," he soothed. "Now, look at the sergeant."

Craning his neck, Drummer Boy looked at Marsh Silas.

"I don't think I'll sleep tonight, Marsh Silas."

"You won't if you keep them eyes open," he responded with a smile.

Taking off his glove, Honeycutt placed his hand over Drummer Boy's eyes, closing them. But he kept his palm there, applying just the slightest bit of pressure. Over some time, Marsh wasn't sure how long, Drummer Boy's shuddering began to cease. It wasn't an automatic response, just a gradual decline. When the Boy was finally still, the medic tentatively lifted his hand. The vox-operator's eyes were shut and there was peace upon his face. Standing up, he exchanged a glance.

"How did you know that'd work?" Marsh whispered as he stood up.

"Not all cures lay with an herbal remedy or a hymn."

"Careful where you say that," Marsh muttered, glancing at Yoxall, who seemed too tired to care if he heard. Honeycutt paid him no mind, stowed his items, and climbed into the bunk above Drummer Boy. Going over to Yoxall, they bumped each other's shoulders with their fists. Marsh then stripped his gear and armor, placing it at one corner. Waiting until his friend got into the bottom bunk cut into Cadian earth, Marsh turned and looked around. He noticed a lantern still burning in Lieutenant Hyram's private comb. After some hesitation, he knocked on the wooden trim around the entrance. "Lieutenant, sir?" There was no answer. "Permission to enter, sir?"

Once more, there was no answer. This time, he could hear sniveling. Glancing back at his comb mates, all of whom were now in their bunks, he pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Pulling it back into place behind him, he found the comb seemingly empty. His weapon, equipment, and gear were sloppily piled up beside his desk. In the corner of the room his helmet sat upended, as if it was thrown there. He went to it and picked it up. Wiping the dust from the top, he set it down lightly on the desk. Turning around, he glanced at the cutting where the pict-captures stood. One was missing.

Hearing the sniffling behind him, Marsh Silas turned to see Hyram huddled in his bunk. The junior officer was curled up under his blanket, his tunic unbuttoned, gripping the pict of his son with both hands. His hands trembled and clutched it so hard his knuckles were white. With heavy legs, Marsh walked over and peered over the officer's shoulders. Hyram's dirty face was smeared by tears and his eyes were red. Mucus leaked from his nose and every so often he sniffed.

Before him was not an inexperienced fool who would get himself or his men killed. Absent was the soldier within who reared his head earlier in the day, gripped by determination. All animosity left Marsh Silas, at least for that instant, and he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Lieutenant..."

Surprisingly, Hyram shook off his hand.

"You've damned us, Cross," he snapped in a choked voice. He tucked his face deeper into his blankets but never took his eyes from the pict. "You lied to those poor souls and now we are damned."

"I didn't lie, sir. I just, eased the blow, is all."

"Lie or not, we carry the greater burden now. Yes, it would have cut them deeper. But truth is liberation. To keep the truth will accrue more damage to the messenger than any it could inflict upon the receiver. You have spared no one in your effort to alleviate the pain. We are _damned_ with the truth."

Marsh Silas felt a pit grow in his stomach. Stooped over with a hand braced on the wall above the bunk cut, he stared at the lieutenant for some time. His words sank in. For a moment, he wanted to be angry. What was this fancy-speaking, inexperienced aristocrat thinking, lecturing him on the aspect of truth? In the lieutenant's state and his already feeble disposition, he could have gotten away with another outburst. But he couldn't bring himself to say or do anything.

Without another word and his head hung low, Marsh Silas exited the officer's lodgings. Leaving his dirty coat and field trousers on, he heaved himself into the bunk. Readjusting, he lay on his back, pulled the blanket up to his waist, and rested his hands on his stomach. Staring at the wooden boards of Yoxall's bunk above, he was still for a time. A long time. At first, he was very still. Breathing shallow, his chest rose and fell. When he took a deep breath, his identification tags, resting at the base of his neck rather than his chest, slid down the chain. The metal was cold against the soft skin of his neck. It was actually rather pleasant.

Eventually, he began to clasp his hands. Alternating between squeezing the fingers on one with the others or clutching them firmly together, his mind wandered back to Asiah. Anguished sobbing and tearful wailing filled his ears. The sounds seemed distant, far off. Sensations of memory were always that way. As the scene repeated over and over again, both their return to camp and the execution of the young ones, Marsh Silas felt a lightness in his chest. A pain grew over his heart, causing it to swell. First he saw the children's faces. The face of every woman flashed through his mind next; Asiah's was the most prominent. Then, he saw his mother's face. Tired, yet maintaining such a soft expression. Dark bags under the eyes for want of sleep. A sharp nose. Loose blonde hair with many frays. Warm violet eyes, filled with compassion. Thin lips, curled in a mystic, faraway smile.

His breath caught. Marsh Silas briefly looked out from his bunk, checking each of his companions. All were fast asleep, some even snoring. Listening, he could hear no one walking down the tunnels. Sliding back into his bunk, he pulled the blanket up to his chin, bit a wad of the end, and wept until sleep came.

###

When Marsh Silas stirred, he was disoriented. Sleeping underground was safest for a Guardsmen, but unable to see daylight or darkness made guessing the time difficult. Luckily, he left his watch on. Blinking the lingering fatigue from his eyes, he raised his wrist. It was just about 0430 hours, standard Terran time. Certainly, it would still be dark outside, though the sunrise would come soon.

For years, he tended to wake before the morning call. It was natural𑁋the body adjusting and adapting to daily routines. Whether it was from that very routine or his dream-populated slumber that he woke, Marsh couldn't be sure.

In the night, he saw the places he lived. First the fortified mansion of his father's family, then the cramped apartment he shared with his widowed mother. He saw her face, exhausted from the fifteen hour shift, across their tiny table. She never looked at anything in particular and hardly touched the meal she prepared. Although, there were times when she would gaze at him and when he looked back, she would show a mother's smile.

Such dreams were bittersweet and did not come often. The pictures they formed were the kind a Guardsman wished to keep in his mind and just as quickly remove them. In the grim life they lived, alleviated briefly by victories counted from battles won to completing a difficult task, occasional glory, and rare furloughs, memories of home and family kept soldiers sane. Think too much of them, and Guardsmen grew melancholic, lonesome, and bitter.

Usually, when he woke early, Marsh Silas would rise from his bunk, don his uniform, start brewing recaf, and watch the time. He would wait until just before the horn bellowed and Commissar Ghent came calling. Waking the men just before he arrived pleased the political officer and staved off his wrath for another time. Being woken by the platoon sergeant was preferable than being roused by the Commissar, the Guardsmen agreed.

On this dreary morning, with his strength still absent and his heart still heavy, Marsh Silas did not rise. For the first time in many years, he elected to remain in his bunk with the blanket up to his chin, curled on his side in the tight space. It wasn't to grasp an opportunity to loaf or get some extra sleep. He just couldn't make himself move this time. The previous night weighed thickly on him still.

He lay for some time, hands clasped together on his center, staring at the wooden boards above him. His mind was blank and that was fine by him, hopeful that a more rejuvenate, albeit shorter, sleep would come. Men like Logue and Foley argued sleep came sooner if one cleared their minds. Walmsley Major adamantly believed attaching to one thought and letting it carry you away was quicker. Refuting his own brother, Walmsley Minor declared that letting your mind wander was better. Having tried all three, Marsh Silas subscribed to Logue and Foley's theory. It worked more often than not.

Just as his eyelids began to grow heavy, the boards above him creaked. A moment later, Yoxall's bare feet appeared over the bunk. Doing his best to be quiet, the demolitions expert hopped to the floor and sat down. He pulled on his heavy socks, followed by his boots, which he began to tie. Propping himself up on his elbows, Marsh Silas looked down at him.

"I say, Arnold, are you up?" he asked his friend. Yoxall didn't look up as he tied his other boot.

"Couldn't sleep." Marsh Silas winced, worried Yoxall may have heard him last night. "I'm going to fire up a brew for the lot and then head to the OP."

"I'll join you," Marsh said, swinging his legs out and sitting up. Yoxall stood, finished dressing in his fatigues, and left for the center comb. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, Marsh Silas set about completing his uniform. He tucked his shirt into his pants, tightened the belt, buttoned his coat, slid his socks and boots on, tied them, and pulled the suspenders up over his shoulders. It was acceptable for off-duty men to let them hang to the sides, but he preferred to have them up.

As his hands were cold, he put on his fingerless gloves and rubbed his palms together. Before he left for the communal comb, he took a look at his sleeping compatriots. He drew closer to Drummer Boy's bunk. The vox-operator was curled up in a ball, sleeping peacefully. Both hands were drawn close to his face and he was sucking on his thumb. For a moment, Marsh Silas reached out to take his hand away. A Commissar would have found it unsoldierly and unmanly. But his hand lingered, then fell. Smiling warmly, Marsh Silas left him be and headed out.

Yoxall was already finished with brewing a pot by the time Marsh arrived. The smell of strong recaf filled the communal comb, overpowering the dry dusty smell of dirt or the odor of men that wafted throughout their underground home. A tin cup with a thin, rusty handle was handed to him. Marsh blew on it, gripping it by the sides rather than the flimsy handle. It warmed his palms comfortably. Breathing in the strong scent drove drowsiness away and the first sip warmed him up quickly.

Filling another cup for himself, Yoxall turned around and the pair stood side by side for a moment, warming their hands and sipping carefully. The smell drew out others; Queshire, fully dressed, came out and silently helped himself. Drummer Boy arrived wearing the heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders, followed by the Walmsley brothers, their blonde hair covered by watch caps. Honeycutt even appeared, wearing a grouchy expression. Each man found a cup, filled it, and began to drink quietly. No one spoke. No one looked at the man next to him. All stood, some leaning against the walls, staring off fixedly in some direction; at the floor, at the ceiling, and the sides of the comb. Eyes were blank and expressions vacant as each man mechanically lifted his arm and drank his recaf.

Standing silently, together, smoking, drinking, staring, they seemed a motley bunch. Not the proud Cadians the rest of the Imperium heard about, but stubble-cheeked, dreary-eyed, beat up Guardsmen. At times such as these, all pride vanished. Men forgot who they were. Such was the life of a Guardsman. When the eyes of his world were drawn elsewhere and he was safe within the confines of his bunker, the prestige of his regiment mattered little and the name of his homeworld was far removed from his mind. Alone in his thoughts, the Guardsman mulled on his actions, on what he did and what he could have done. But only for a time; soon he would shake his head, reminding himself of the many slogans pasted on massive posters in the Kasrs, and resume his duties. In the time being, however, the few men of Bloody Platoon stood among one another in peaceful silence.

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,702


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Marsh Silas raised his other arm and glanced at his watch. It was approaching oh-five-hundred hours. Finishing his recaf, he set the tin cup down and made for the ladder. He was followed by Yoxall, downing his own cup, then Queshire, who scaled the ladder with one hand on the bars and the other clutching his tin. Shrugging their shoulders, the Walmsley brothers and Drummer Boy followed.

As the six Guardsmen entered the top of the bunker, they found members of Third Platoon. They were spread along the parapets, some sitting, others half-leaning against the walls. A young sergeant, by the name of Bonner, was looking through a pair of magnoculars. While the others filed through the entrance, he knelt down beside the NCO.

"Gonna be a cold one today," muttered Bonner, wiping his red nose on the back of his gloved hand. "Might snow later."

"Any movement across the channel?"

"Some queer figures dashin' about near them piers. No boats though."

"Woe to them when they show up. The Basilisks will get'em."

He patted the sergeant's shoulder and joined the others at the OP. Men from Third Platoon were in there. Despite their watch not having ended, the drowsy troopers from Bloody Platoon volunteered to stand watch while they caught some extra sleep.

When encamped, entire platoons pulled watch shifts. On a watch, the platoon then broke into smaller shifts, usually operating in two's for OP's and heavy weapons positions, and four or five for bunkers. While some members of the platoon would take up the positions, the rest would sleep. Or at least try to; even when it was possible to catch an hour or two of shuteye, there was plenty to keep a Guardsman up. In a heavily engaged sector, in which the enemy was firmly embedded, artillery made sleep impossible. Probing attacks or raids also kept Guardsmen on edge and afraid. Eldar infiltrators, known as Rangers, often made their way onto the planet from Craftworld Ulthwé. This was usually in between their larger incursions, just to keep an eye on what the Cadians were up to. Rangers were talented marksmen and took opportunities to kill an officer. Making the Cadians duck was something the filthy xenos seemed to enjoy. Cultists were a problem in any sector, lurking in wait to ambush those in the quiet areas, and flocking to the Chaos warbands in the engaged spots. To top it all off, heretics did their best to eek out a living and often mingled with cultists. With so many enemies wanting to pay Cadia a visit, sleep was sometimes impossible.

In the quiet sectors, one could find some peace at least, Marsh Silas considered tiredly.

As the sentries of Third Platoon wrapped themselves in blankets and settled down, he and his clique assembled in front of the trench. The tips of their boots were nearly on the edge of the cliff. Breakers crashed against the jagged rocks and the beach. White spray flew upward. Salty winds ruffled their collars and hair. Across the channel, gray fog clung to the macabre ruins of Kasr Fortis. For some time, they stared out at the murky waters and the dreaded holdfast.

"We failed yesterday," said Yoxall.

He stood at the end of their group, next to Marsh Silas. All looked his way, not with anger for breaking the quiet or dismay to be reminded of the grisly affair, but with a solemn affirmation.

"It was our duty to do what we did," said Walmsley Minor, "but I wish it hadn't come to that."

"We all do, brother," Walmsley Major assured, putting an arm around his younger sibling.

"This ain't like the other times," went the Drummer Boy, "we's failed before but this feels different. This time, there was faces to the people we're supposed to help, and we let'em down."

"We did all we could," Honeycutt offered, putting a hand on the Boy's shoulder. "That's all a Guardsman can do. Take some comfort in that."

Such words were hollow, even if they came from Honeycutt. Everyone felt the same way as the vox-operator. It was written on their faces, in their pursed lips, furrowed brows, and guilty eyes. A cloud hung over the men, and Marsh Silas knew it, because there was still one over him. Not even a night of silent sobbing could force the guilt from him. His he could bear, but not that of the men he loved so dear. Heaving a sigh, he turned to Yoxall, who looked back at him.

"How's about a prayer, then?" he suggested with a smile. Yoxall nodded. Everyone took out their prayer beads or the cross on their ident-tag chain, cupping them in their palms. They circled up, holding hands𑁋Queshire was forced to put his tin of recaf on the edge of the trench𑁋and bowed their heads. Some closed their eyes. Marsh did at first, but opened them as soon as Yoxall began the prayer.

"We tell Thee, who both molds and breaks us, we have forsaken our Imperial brothers and sisters, and thus have forsaken You. We asketh He..." Arnold Yoxall continued. Marsh watched his friend weave his words so well, they wrapped around and around those gathered like a golden blanket.

In all his years, from the moment he opened his eyes to this morning upon the cliff, Marsh thought there was no better preacher than the man before him. Priests and confessors of the Imperium guided every citizen through song and sermon, but it fell to every citizen to pray. Arnold Yoxall was the most impassioned and well-spoken of them all. He ought to have been a priest, not a Guardsman. His father was forced by wounds to leave the Shock Troops and he became a deacon; his occupation could have allowed his son to rise into the Ecclesiarchy. Instead, here he was, a dirty, bedraggled, faithful Guardsman. At that moment, as the prayer concluded, Marsh Silas wished he was as eloquent as Arnold Yoxall.

The demolitions expert looked up. "...and we asketh He, who divines us protection and guidance, for forgiveness."

Their hands fell apart. Crosses and prayer beads were kissed then returned to their chains and pouches. Suddenly, the wind lessened, lessened, lessened, until it faded entirely. The tides ebbed and the channel waters grew calm. Early morning darkness began to dissipate and the fog enveloping Kasr Fortis receded. Far off on the horizon, past the Kasr's carcass, the sun showed its head. Rays of sunlight began to strike out through the sky. Golden light ate away the gray blanket of clouds. Before long, the sun was rising higher and higher. As it took permanence in the sky the wind returned, gentle and warm, like a breath of air. The waves rebounded, the white crests sparkling like gems in the pure light. To complete the sight before them, the regimental bugler called reveille and the notes carried over the camp with a familiarity pleasant to every Guardsman.

Marsh Silas felt a tug at his lips, and he smiled happily. Everyone was smiling now. He patted Yoxall on the back.

"I suppose we're forgiven, then?"

"I reckon we are, or we're on the road to it," Arnold Yoxall said back happily.

Marsh Silas thought about making a joke, as his wristwatch showed it was well-past oh-five-hundred hours, the prime time for sunrise. But he decided to keep quiet and not interrupt their now pleasant morning.

"If you seek absolution so dearly, know the Inquisition exculpates you."

Marsh Silas knew that voice. He and the others turned to see Inquisitor Barlocke standing on the other side of the trench. His leather trench coat was suspended back slightly by the wind. One hand rested on the pommel of his energy sword and the other held the strap of his lasgun. His eyes were amused and his ever-present smile particularly delighted.

Light of step, he leapt over the trench and sidled up to Marsh Silas. He inhaled deeply and released a contented sigh. "Nothing like the sea air to clear your lungs in the morning. I've forgotten how badly I missed planets with crisp water."

Nobody spoke, they just exchanged a few glances. Some, like the Walmsley brothers and Drummer Boy, looked to Marsh Silas. It was no secret he and the Inquisitor were uncommonly talkative and often in one another's presence. When Barlocke appeared, it was usually in the platoon sergeant's company. If he wasn't around him, then the Inquisitor could hardly be found anywhere. All Marsh could do was shrug and make a confused, aggravated face.

Barlocke watched the channel for some time, then turned to face the sergeant. "Considering the state of your men last night, I warded off giving an official report of our findings yesterday. I imagine your Colonel Isaev wasn't too pleased by that. Perhaps we should take care of it now."

"We?" Marsh Silas repeated.

"Wouldn't you like to join me?" Barlocke quiered. He looked around. "Anyone?"

The others were rather perplexed and stood in silence. If their uneasiness was as easy to spot for Marsh Silas, then Inquisitor Barlocke was simply ignoring it. Quickly puffing on his pipe and clearing his throat, Marsh straightened up.

"'Fraid you'll have to go it alone, sir. I gotta see about waking the platoon. I'm sure we've got a long day ahead o' us."

"Sergeant Queshire?" Barlocke said, turning to the man in question. The squad leader blinked and straightened up𑁋a natural impulse for a Guardsman when constantly under review by superior officers. "Why don't you handle the roll? You're more than capable."

"Yes, sir."

"Off you go then!" Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. "The rest of you, follow me!" He turned on his heel and skipped over the trench. As the bewildered Queshire went off to perform his duty, Marsh Silas and his small company of men hesitated a moment, then pursued the Inquisitor.

###

"What does ex...expate...ex-pul-pate mean?" Marsh Silas asked.

"It's _ex-cul-pate_, and it's just a fancy way of saying forgive," Yoxall explained.

"Then why didn't he just say that?"

"Because he be wantin' to sound fancy!" Walmsley Major cracked. The group followed Inquisitor Barlocke through the entrance to regimental headquarters. In the small lobby area of sorts, staff officers were briefly organizing their reports before heading in. Buttoning their tunics properly and smoothing the creases in their uniforms, Marsh Silas and his little band walked past the guards into the center. Before they drew any further, he snatched the heavy blanket from Drummer Boy's shoulders.

"Take off the damned blanket!"

"It's cold, Marsh Silas!"

"You ain't ever known warmth," he hissed back as he tucked the blanket behind a corner, just out of sight so no one would confiscate it.

In the very center was a hololithic projector, showing a map of the sector. Army's Meadow appeared in the middle of the table projection, as did Kasr Fortis across from it. Many of the small townships and villages were marked on it. Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and the other regimental officers were gathered around, save for Hyram and Third Platoon's Lieutenant Savidge. Most were holding data-slates and pointing to certain locations on the map. Their conversation was lost among the staff officers, orderlies, and specialists performing their duties. It was a sort of organized discord. Voices rising above one another, escalating even higher to make themselves heard. Clerks pounding away at terminals. Priests studied holy tomes and preached to small gatherings of officers. Senior enlisted men delivered reports to officers and marched away. Scribes penned the briefings and conversations of superiors. Enginseers filed by with servitors in tow. A supply officer barked at his personnel, picking up and dropping off crates packed with the essentials for running a command center. At one section was a small mess unit, ladling out hot recaf and toasted bread adorned with sliced grox meat and cheese.

Regimental headquarters was not a place Marsh Silas visited often. Seeing the bustle and the many ranking officers made him feel sorely out of place. He remained as straight and attentive as possible in case an officer decided to take notice of him. His companions followed suit. Barlocke looked over the commotion and exhaled. Spinning on his heel to face the Guardsmen, he flashed a pleasant smile.

"I do believe your colonel is rather busy. Let's not disturb him as of yet. Why don't I fetch us some breakfast?"

"Uh𑁋"

"Splendid, wait here!"

In an instant, the Inquisitor was lost in the mass of mobile men. Marsh Silas heaved a sigh and emptied his pipe into a nearby bin. Smoking was allowed but he decided to put it away for now. Looking back at the center projector, he watched his superior officers. By the captain was First Sergeant Hayhurst, a sturdy Cadian with a sharp, square face and a constant scowl. Hayhurst looked up and met the staff sergeant's gaze. His brow immediately furrowed.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

Immediately, Hayhurst excused himself and marched vigorously towards Marsh Silas. Quickly turning to his men, Marsh Silas buttoned the collar of his jacket.

"Alright lads, look sharp," he muttered. As Hayhurst stormed up, the men clicked their heels, straightened their backs, and raised their chins. "Atten-shun!" In a single motion, they saluted.

"Put yer damn hands down," Hayhurst snarled, "what are you doing in headquarters, staff sergeant?"

"We're..." Marsh Silas realized, having been roped into accompanying the Inquisitor, they had no good reason to be there. Glancing over Hayhurst's massive shoulder, he spotted Barlocke leaning on the counter chatting up the cook filling mugs with recaf. Swallowing, he met the first sergeant's eyes. "...providing security for Inquisitor Barlocke, sir!"

"Providing security!?" Hayhurst barked, incredulous. "Why would a servant o' the Imperium that deadly need security from the likes o' you!?"

"He asked us, sir," Honeycutt grunted from behind Marsh.

"Am I fucking talking to you, sawbones!?" Hayhurst spat. "I'm talkin' to Marsh Silas. The rest of you shut your traps!"

"Sir!" the others yelped. Hayhurst poked Marsh Silas in the chest as he spoke.

"What're you up to, staff sergeant? You always be poking your nose where it don't belong. Jus' because you were the lieutenant's little puppy doesn't mean you can prance around like you own the regiment. I ought to give you a proper licking, boy..."

Marsh Silas held his tongue and gritted his teeth. Hayhurst continued to poke him hard in the chest. It began to hurt.

Hayhurst was always ready to berate him in some fashion, more so when Bloody Platoon was watching. It was no secret the first sergeant felt snubbed when Marsh Silas was considered for Bloody Platoon's commander after Ellery Overton was promoted and transferred. While both were denied, Hayhurst held it as a slight as he was the more experienced Guardsmen with more leadership responsibilities. As well, he was one of the few rare Cadians who served offworld and survived long enough to come back. Many non-commissioned officers saw themselves promoted after many years of meritorious service, or just to fill the gaps of deceased or transferred commissioned officers. Many of the famous Cadian generals started as rank and file troopers only to rise in the military hierarchy. Hayhurst briefly taking charge of Bloody Platoon ever since Overton𑁋remembered as Good Ol' Overton𑁋left for offworld service, hoped this was the case. When informed it was temporary, he took it in stride but all knew he was bitter except for Colonel Isaev. He got a taste for leading a platoon rather than advising the company commander. The importance of his own rank as first sergeant seemed entirely lost on him. Some might have considered the promotion to lieutenant from first sergeant to be a _demotion. _

He felt small in front of the domineering first sergeant. All experience and rank he held melted away before the onslaught. His embarrassment was made all the worse by being in front of his own men. Eventually, he couldn't even look him in the eye like a man. What kind of Cadian couldn't take a chewing out on the chin, thought Marsh Silas shamefully. Squeezing his hands into fists, he did his best not to shake. Years of training, conditioning, following orders, war, and _this _was the man he feared. But it was his duty to stand and take it. Take it he would, but he hated himself that he could not maintain his gaze.

"Beg pardon?"

Marsh Silas looked up and Hayhurst paused. Just to the side, Inquisitor Barlocke stood. He held a large tray; seven cups of recaf were packed together on one side and seven meaty sandwiches in toasted bread were piled neatly on the other. One eyebrow was raised in curiosity.

Barlocke stepped closer. "I'd like to know why you're harassing my sergeant."

Hayhurst blinked, apparently shocked to see an agent of the higher Imperium catering food to common Cadian Guardsmen. He kept looking down at the tray, then up at the Inquisitor, over at the men, then back at the food. Letting him gawk for a few moments, Barlocke rolled his eyes. "If you haven't a good reason to, oh excuse me, one moment𑁋Arnold, dear boy, hold this please...thank you𑁋if you haven't a good reason to harass my sergeant here then I suggest you go back to your place beside Captain Murga."

"I mean no offense, Inquisitor. But Staff Sergeant Cross and his men have no business being in regimental headquarters, and furthermore this boy ain't earned his stripes or his sword or𑁋"

"Don't call him boy and if you dare prod him one more time with your fat finger, I'm going to break it so you'll never be able to pick your nose again, first sergeant," Barlocke threatened menacingly. He walked forward, forcing Hayhurst back, and putting himself in between the two sergeants. In a protective manner, he gently pushed Marsh Silas behind him. "Leave these men in peace. As of now, you have no right to admonish these Guardsmen, especially since they were out fighting yesterday, and you were not."

Hayhurst turned very red. Barlocke nodded towards the command staff. "Off you go." Without another word, the first sergeant turned on his heel in fine Cadian fashion albeit with a downward stare, and rejoined Captain Murga.

Marsh watched him go over the Inquisitor's shoulder. A mixture of shock, disbelief, and delight washed over him. But his smile quickly disappeared. Embarrassment crept over him and he hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and made himself small. Voices, familiar and wretched to him, flooded his mind. 'You're nothing but an upjumped street urchin!' 'You and your mother will never be as good as us.' 'You're a blight on our name.' 'You'll never amount to anything.'Oh, he could see it all again; elder fingers jabbing him, palms striking his cheek and cuffing his ears, and puffed out medal-adorned chests parading around him.

Inquisitor Barlocke turned around smiling. His brow rose in confusion when he saw the curdled expression on the staff sergeant's face. "What ails you?"

Marsh Silas met his gaze.

"You didn't have to go and do that, sir. I can take it just fine."

Barlocke stared at him very deeply.

"No, you can't," he said as gentle as a caress.

If any other man told him he couldn't do something, Marsh Silas probably would have hit him. If it was an officer, he would have found an appropriate way to defend himself. Or at least, he liked to think so. Yet before the Inquisitor, all defenses left him. The words cut very deep and stung his pride.

The Inquisitor placed a reassuring hand on Marsh's shoulder. "Come, let us join the briefing. You and I shall confer afterwards." Spinning on his heel, he marched towards the central projector. Marsh Silas and his men watched him go. Eventually, he sighed, took a cup of recaf and a sandwich from the tray, and joined the command meeting.

The clique of officers all turned in surprise to see the weary Guardsmen standing behind the Inquisitor, mugs and sandwiches in their hands. Perplexed glances were exchanged and a few looked on disapprovingly. Eating during a command meeting was hardly appropriate and enlisted men weren't supposed to be a part of it.

Only the regimental intelligence officer, Captain Giles, and his assistant, Lieutenant Eastoft, seemed amused. Giles was a tall Cadian though not so strong. Everyone in the regiment noted him as the friendliest man among them. He had ruddy cheeks which lit up when he smiled, which was almost constantly. His amiable eyes were a warm shade of purple and he was the kind of Guardsman who put his hand on a man's shoulder when speaking to him. Eastoft was the only woman in the regiment and was more reserved. In her time she lost an arm, a leg, and an eye; all were replaced with cybernetics and bionics. The piece over her right eye was intimidating, but she was no less gracious than Giles. Both were equally loved and respected by the regiment.

Intimidating Colonel Isaev cleared his throat.

"Inquisitor, it's not common for enlisted Guardsmen to be present during a briefing."

"I'm aware. These men are serving as my personal bodyguard this morning."

Once again, the officers looked at the Guardsmen who were slurping their recaf and taking unwieldy bites out of their sandwiches.

"And a fine job they're doing, indeed!" Captain Giles laughed, who sipped from his own tin cup of recaf.

"Better continue your briefing, Captain," said Colonel Isaev with a weary sigh.

"Mm, yes sir. The after-action report sent by Inquisitor Barlocke has caused a stir at Cadian High Command. If they have not been aware of these scattered fortified villages and townships over the less active sectors, they are now." He reached down to the terminal controlling the hololithic projector and changed the three-dimensional image to a map overview. A number of locations on the map of their sector were highlighted in yellow. Everyone drew in for a closer look.

Giles began pointing to the highlighted areas. "CHC has updated us with the location of every isolated town and village in our sector. Reports indicate missing children, deserting Interior Guardsmen, and other disappearances."

"I'm updating your data-slates with the information," Lieutenant Eastoft said.

After a brief interaction with the terminal, the data-slates among all the officers pinged. Everyone began scrolling through their slate, even Barlocke. He shook his head.

"There are over fifty reports in just this last standard year alone. Why hasn't the Internal Guard investigated?"

Captain Giles explained the Internal Guard focused on the Kasrs when it came to dealing with heretics and cults. Keeping the Kasrs depopulated of potential threats was key to Cadia's defense. Issues from the quiet sectors, and at that the scattered remnants living among the outlying villages, were not perceived as a threat. Until now, he made sure to add.

"Quiet sectors don't stay quiet forever," Captain Giles went on. "Attacks from Chaos may change. Warbands may choose a seemingly less defended area rather than heap more forces against our strategic sectors. Cadian High Command believes one of the nearby hot sectors will cool soon, and our's will become more active. These old buildings may find themselves restored to their original roles. And now that Kasr Fortis appears to be inhabited, they have requested the 1333th begin clearing out the villages."

"Request? Not order?" Marsh Silas asked out loud.

"You speak when spoken to!" Hayhurst barked. Marsh Silas immediately backed down and made himself small.

"Silence yourself, First Sergeant!" Barlocke snapped, his voice loud and dark. It surprised everybody. A few tense moments passed before the Inquisitor resumed his calm demeanor. "My sergeant raises a relevant question."

"Well, CHC knows you've requisitioned us for your investigation. We're still at the Inquisition's beck and call; if you do not see this mission as aligning with your own, they will send in another regiment instead."

"How polite of them," Barlocke mused. "No, this pertains to my investigation. Clearing these locations may yield more evidence to heretical activity across the channel and will weaken their operations on the mainland. We shall proceed with the mission and see it done. Is that to your standard, Colonel?"

"It is, Inquisitor."

"Very well."

"We'll begin drafting plans right away," Captain Giles said.

As the officers began to discuss among themselves, including Barlocke, Giles approached. Marsh Silas saluted him and the gesture was returned; with a quick motion the intelligence officer guided him a few steps away from the main group. "Laddy, I heard about last night."

"Had to be done," Marsh Silas with a shrug, although it was only a mask. Captain Giles gazed at him curiously, obviously seeing through it. Ultimately, he looked around at the other officers before leaning in closer.

"I must tell you, Marsh Silas," he said in a hushed tone. "Were it not for the Inquisitor, the regiment wouldn't have sanctioned the mission."

Marsh Silas grimaced. He was only too aware of that. Eliminating an enemy force and defending a strategic asset were more important in the eyes of the upper echelons than rescuing civilians. It was something he shunted to the back of his mind during yesterday's mission. Hopes rose and were subsequently dashed. He thought, perhaps, if he fought such hope and remembered his training he would not be in such a state.

Captain Giles went on. "The regiment is displeased with your new platoon leader."

"Because of yesterday's mission?"

"Hayhurst has been keeping a watchful eye on him. He lacks Cadian spirit."

"How can you all be certain?"

"He's not here, now is he?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips.

"I am displeased with him as well, to put it bluntly. But he kept pace with us yesterday and pushed us on that mission."

"I'm glad to have a moral man among us, but I'd be gladder to have one with more experience." Giles tipped his low-peaked cap back up his head a little. "I have spoken with the gentleman. Despite his lack of aptitude, he is a good man, and I don't wish to see anything befall him. Help him, Marsh Silas. Show him how to be a good Cadian."

Marsh Silas said nothing, feeling a new weight placed upon his shoulders. The kindly yet urgent tone in Giles' voice was too compelling to refuse. He offered a small nod and Giles smiled in thanks. "Of course, if you were commissioned as the new platoon leader we wouldn't be in such a position."

"The regiment had their reasons."

"Foolish reasons. And that brat Hayhurst did everything in his power to make sure you didn't get it. You ought to have been promoted; after all, you're a Cross."

Marsh Silas shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked down at his boots. Captain Giles put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, laddy."

"All is well."

"You wear a face."

"I must, for the men."

"If you ever grow tired, come up to the regiment. I'll see you have a respite."

Marsh Silas smiled a little then. Captain Giles was highly regarded throughout the regiment. It was more than providing intelligence that kept them out of ambushes and traps. He took it upon himself to go up and down the lines, talking with the men, asking after their health, and making sure they were provisioned. While these activities were in no way part of his duties, he did it all the same. If a man was low on rations, he pulled some from his pocket. When a Guardsman was tired, Captain Giles would cover his watch. On the occasion one of the troopers' nerves began running thin, Captain Giles would request an extra pair of hands up at regimental headquarters. Any man who found himself assigned there was issued light duty; compiling paperwork, acting as a runner, or just pulling security. Giles made sure the selected man had plenty of warm meals and hot recaf during his stay in the headquarters.

Saluting smartly, and shaking hands with Giles, Marsh took his leave.

###

After the meeting concluded and regimental command began plotting the next mission, Marsh thought he and his mates would be free. Instead, Barlocke decided to go for a walk and politely asked his 'bodyguards,' to join him.

Barlocke led them out of the perimeter into the fields of yellow flowers. He was ahead of them by a dozen Terran standard feet. Marsh was a short distance behind him, while the remainder of the Guardsmen trailed further back. Cool morning winds returned and crossed Army's Meadow, causing the sea of flowers to roll like ocean waves. A wonderful, peculiar rustling rose as the stalks brushed against one another. Heavier gusts whipped the men's collars, sleeves, and coats. Yellow petals were carried with the wind, filling the air and flipping on the breeze. Many found their way into the surf and crashing white breakers were dotted with yellow. The sea beyond was dazzled by the sun, now rising higher in the sky. In the distance, the jutting masses of Cadian rock and soil were dark, stoic, and proud.

As he walked, Marsh Silas gently clenched his pipe between his lips. It was not lit. The yellow petals from the flowers fell upon his shoulders and got stuck under his collar, or on his coat pockets. Some even found their way into his hair. Glancing to the field on the opposite side of the road, he could see the civilians roaming through the fields. Unlike the Inquisitor, their faces were somber and devoid of all emotion. He could see Asiah, drifting through the flowers, plucking one every so often. She did so with a peculiar gentleness that he watched for some time.

In the midst of a cyclone of yellow petals, Barlocke paused and raised both arms. His palms were outstretched as he tipped his head back. His hat fell, revealing his dark hair. Instead of picking it up, he continued on through the flower fields. His fingers floated above the flowers, grazing them with his touch, as if he were treading through water. He appeared to not have a care in the world. All darkness, mystery, and threatening aspects of personage disappeared. Marsh stooped over, collected the hat, and followed.

After some time, Barlocke paused, laughed, and turned around, arms outstretched.

"Before I came here, all I heard about this besieged, beleaguered planet was its military pride and hellish landscape. I expected never ending fields of trenches, bunkers, and corpses. Yet you hide such beauty here, Marsh Silas!"

The wind grew chillier and Marsh Silas yanked his soft cover cap from his belt. It was a simple olive drab color, a short flat forward brim and non-rigid boxy shape.

"Besieged we are, but the forces of Chaos don't occupy and assault every bit of Cadian soil. Even here, we have our quiet from time to time."

He put on his cap. Barlocke, who had begun walking again, turned around.

"Remove your soft-cover. All you Guardsmen hide behind your helmets, masks, and so many bad hats. I wish to see your face, not your armor."

Marsh Silas blinked and after a moment's hesitation, removed it. His pace slackened as he watched the Inquisitor, walking carefree through the flowers. At first, it was just peculiar, almost humorous. Such a darkly-clad man who could vaunt his Ordo's reputation at any time was practically skipping through a solitary Cadian flower field. Indignation soon overshadowed all else. Quickening his pace, Marsh Silas caught up with Barlocke.

"Hey. Hey!"

The Inquisitor turned around. Marsh Silas raised an agitated finger, "How can you be like this?"

"Like what?"

"Did last night not happen?"

"Surely, it must have, for the sun has risen."

Marsh Silas tried to form a sentence, but was so flabbergasted by the Inquisitor's jaunty retort he just made a few shocked, irritated sounds. Barlocke seemed to be delighted by this and chuckled. He placed a hand on the staff sergeant's shoulder and smiled reassuringly. "Listen to me, Silas. I have seen much of our Imperium. Not all of it, mind. I doubt any man could make such an adventure in a lifetime. But I've witnessed enough. Many ghastly sights, the kind that would lead to an existence of quiet prayer just to sort it all out. So take my advice, do not dwell on things. React as you must, then move on. To dwell on a matter is to trap yourself in your own mind."

Marsh Silas contemplated this for a few moments.

"Inquisitor, Captain Giles said were it not for the presence of our enemy, the regiment would not have sent us on such o' mission. All my soldier's life, I have known this, yet I hoped we would save them and return them to their mothers, and having failed, I feel a greater disappointment than I ever have before."

"It's human nature."

"What a queer thing to say," Marsh Silas mused, having never heard anything put in such a way.

"Why, the nature of us! Of me, of you!" Barlocke exclaimed. "All the training and teachings in the world can't prevent our nature. Only the most emotionally devoid, mindless, thoughtless, and morally corrupt can withstand it. You bear none such deficiencies. Deep down, there is an innate desire to protect the defenseless. It was your _nature _showing itself to you. I daresay, it shan't be the last."

The flowers swished in the salty breeze. Marsh Silas stared at the Inquisitor, who looked upon him with a kind smile. Oddly enough, the former was drawn back to a memory. Or rather, a sort of realization. Long ago as a lad of just fourteen standard years, he saw his first action. Like any Cadian's, it was chaotic, terrifying, and exhilarating. How horrible he felt, though, when he saw Whiteshields torn limb from limb by Traitor Marines, or blown apart by explosives, or riddled with so many Bolts they simply fell apart. No blood, no screaming; just one great volley and their body collapsed and broke up, like a crumbling building. Such sights filled him with great horror, to the point of retching. It took so long to get used to the mangled corpses, the screaming wounded Guardsmen, and the sheer smell of blood and flesh upon vast battlefields.

One day, he couldn't remember when it lost its effect. There was a change. He began to look at the bodies as he would a stone or a tree or some other lifeless object. What disturbed him vanished. When friends fell, his heart ached and he shed his tears. Some horrors were harder to get over than others. But the dead bodies in their multitudes no longer frightened him. When the change took place, or how, was still unknown to him. There just came a day, a single day, where he was no longer moved. All he knew, there was a change.

Standing in the swaying flower field, with his men far behind and the Inquisitor right before him, he _knew _there was some kind of change occurring. He was aware of it, by the Emperor, he was very aware. What was this change he did not know. There was something in the air, yet also something inside him. When he looked into Barlocke's dark eyes, he was certain there was and he wasn't sure how to feel. There was a modicum of fear, certainly. Yet there was also some manner of relief, a breath of air long held finally being released. As Barlocke squeezed his shoulder and gaze into his eyes reassuringly, Marsh Silas felt as though there were days ahead which he would have never imagined.

He blinked, as if waking from a stupor. Resuming his soliderly posture he pushed the Inquisitor's hand away.

"Very well, Inquisitor. I must speak my mind one more time."

"I would be disappointed if you did not," Barlocke baited.

"I am not _your _sergeant. I am𑁋"

"The platoon's sergeant, yes I'm aware," Barlocke said. "It's a very good line."

"How could you know?" Marsh Silas asked, shocked.

"I know a great many things, _Silvanus_. More than you can imagine." He patted him on the cheek. "In due time, I will show you."

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,046


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

Cadia, as it stood that chilly morning, was an old and proud planet. It possessed a distinct culture. A newcomer to the Fortress World might have thought it was shocking to see people so pleased to be in uniform and paying such little mind to Archenemy's proximity. What a world it was; entire valleys crisscrossed by trench networks and bunkers, mountaintops dominated by fortified base camps and tunnel networks, and of course, the mighty Kasrs, built not for beauty but defense. For all the miles of fortifications, they led back to these mighty citadels characterized by moats, high walls, automated turrets, firing ports by the thousands, bunkers, towers, heavy guns, barbed wire, small rail networks to move ammunition, interconnecting tunnels beneath the streets. Even the roadways were characterized by erratic patterns, heavy barriers, bunkers, reinforced checkpoints with overlapping fields of fire. Platoons of heavy vehicles stood vigil on the streets, entire regiments manned the walls and patrolled the roads. Even civilians, enjoying their short time off-duty from the factory or auxiliary facilities, casually marched in step. There was no greenery and no grand architecture, yet true Cadians found a beauty in it all the same. To see the banners and flags waving in the breeze, massive posters of war heroes pasted on the walls, and hearing the preachers and Commissars on the street reciting scripture and doctrine respectively reminded Cadians of their privileged duty.

Yet, all knew of Holy Terra's grandeur. There were virtues instilled and expected in every Cadian—discipline, courage, sacrifice. But there were also traits expected of them as Imperial citizens. These lessons came all the way from the birthplace of mankind. All heard of the fabled world, its grand, shimmering golden architecture, the wide and winding boulevards, the marvelous cathedrals, and proud statues. It was where the God-Emperor enlightened and uplifted mankind to the most illustrious beings in the galaxy. Such a tremendous feat was not lost on the soldiers of Cadia.

All Cadians loved their homeworld and would die to defend it. Even if they were honored with service elsewhere, they would never call another planet home. Yet, like every citizen within the Imperium, there was that forlorn, far away dream to set eyes on Holy Terra. To kneel in the cathedrals, raise their voices in prayer, and pay respect to He who guided them.

Marsh Silas, never having left Cadian soil for too long, wondered if he would see any vestiges of that glory when Barlocke finally led them into the Fortis ruins. Remnants of a statue, crumbling spires of a cathedral, rubble-covered avenues, anything that carried the image of Holy Terra. But he was a Cadian through and through. There would be no set of clothes for him in all his life than his fatigues and flak armor. No other calling would ever tempt him from making war upon the Imperium's countless foes. Although he would always find a Kasr infinitely more attractive, there was still a desire to see Holy Terra, even if it was just shadows within a ruin.

Kasr Fortis stood forebodingly under a gray morning sky, partially masked in a fog bank. There was no wind so the channel waters were eerily still. Light snow was falling, covering what was visible of the skeletal metropolis with a thin white dust.

Sitting in the observation post with Drummer Boy, Marsh Silas stared at the ruins. Both were shivering, even under their heavy cloaks. Their lasguns were propped up against their shoulders, barrels pointed skyward. Both pulled the lower parts of their tactical hoods up over their noses. With each shaky breath came a small white cloud. As soon as they appeared, they faded away.

Seeing Drummer Boy shaking worse than he, Marsh threw his arm around the young Guardsman's shoulders and drew him close. Drummer Boy leaned his head against Marsh's shoulder, taking a long shaky breath through his teeth. The platoon sergeant ran his hand up and down the vox-operator's arm, followed by some firm, reassuring pats.

"The winter fatigues will be in soon," he said, trying to be as reassuring as possible despite his chattering teeth.

Guardsmen's fatigues were already very heavy. Being in the lower north, Cadia's natural cool climate, and the short periods between winter and summer, it was rarely warm on the planet. Cadians managed just fine without winter wear for only a short time; at most, a Guardsman needed a standard-issue patrol cloak to stave off the wind during such periods. Raincoats were issued but rarely used because of the lack of rain. Snow was the only steady precipitation in their region, and it snowed for most of the year.

However, cold weather arrived early and the regiment was now without proper winter fatigues. The cloaks and other heavy clothing they kept in the communal chests was given to the men going on watch because they were the most exposed to the elements. Morning and nighttime were the worst times to pull watch. Men who guarded their posts in daylight fared better.

Having been put on watch early in the morning without proper clothing made Marsh Silas very cross. Grinding his teeth, he shook his head. "Never in my soldier's life have I ever sat around so bloody much," he grunted.

Despite the approved plan of action in clearing the sector of all settlements and removing untainted populaces to the nearest Kasr, the regiment remained in the perimeter. Three days passed with no order from Inquisitor Barlocke to move out. The inaction was taking its toll.

It was not just the recent idleness; since he was a Whiteshield in the Youth Army, he was always on the move. Unlike the many garrison postings throughout the Imperium, a Fortress World never lacked for combat. At the Eye of Terror's edge, there was a heap more to deal with. When one operation concluded another was already starting. A regiment in the subarctic regions could find itself deployed in a matter of days to the boreal forests or the great plains. Sometimes regiments would go entire months, even years, without any furlough. The longest stretch he endured was three standard years without leave and he found the experience utterly hellish. Under the command of Inquisitor Barlocke the regiment was committed to hardly any missions and spent most of its time encamped at Army's Meadow.

With this newfound time, he did his best to keep the men of Bloody Platoon busy. Inactivity was bad for a Guardsman's morale and risked the breakdown of discipline in the ranks. So, Marsh Silas had the men reinforce their trench network, adding further fortifications from barbed wire to extra sandbags. Being deeply entrenched already, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find parts in Army's Meadow which weren't already beyond full strength. In between work parties, he made the men drill, drill, and drill. Drilling consumed a vast amount of time, kept the men sharp, and impressed the regimental officers. Specifically, Commissar Ghent: extra drilling kept him pleased and warded him off from enacting disciplinary actions. Some days, the platoon would march up and down the peninsula several times or practice mock long range patrols and tactical formations in the flower friends. Other times, Marsh Silas ordered them to practice with their bayonets, erecting dummy targets for them to jab and scream at. He kept them attentive to their weapons, keeping them clean and in good order with sacramental oils and prayers. Even the humble M36 lasgun possessed a Machine Spirit. Lobbing rotten vegetables from the rations, caring for their other wargear, and keeping punctual with their prayers were also common activities the platoon sergeant maintained. Much to Bloody Platoon's aggravation, he made his men remove the ammunition from their auto-pistols, polish them, and place them back in the magazine after they broke their fast. It was very good for morale, even if it was challenging.

It was hard work and Marsh Silas knew it. But he was trained in such ways under Commissar Ghent in the Youth Army, and he was still alive. So, he trained the men, and prayed to the God-Emperor it would pay off.

Despite his best efforts there was still too much downtime. Oddly enough, in these periods of regimental passivity he found himself drawn to the observation post. Gazing upon snow-dusted Kasr Fortis day after day increased his curiosity as well as his fear to finally head over. Despite the pit which grew in his gut each time he clapped eyes on it, he was beginning to find it quite beautiful. Although, it was a sad sort of beauty; the snow masked its ancient wounds and bequeathed an air of dignity.

Drummer Boy drew a shaky breath.

"I've never wished for a fight so bad."

"The plan's been made, but it's Barlocke keeping us here."

"Aren't we wasting time, then? What's he playing at?"

"If I knew what the bastard was thinking, I wouldn't be a Guardsman for much longer."

It always came back to Barlocke. With the 1333th firmly under his control until he deemed his business finished, he could direct them any way he wished. Even Cadian High Command would be slow to criticize him; no one wished to earn the ire of the Ordo Hereticus. The man wore two faces; the immovable, dark, taciturn face familiar to his station and then the face of Barlocke, which Marsh Silas witnessed more often. He put on the former expression when dealing with anyone who exercised any kind of authority. One reminder of his Ordo and a flash of his Inquisitorial cap, they were silenced. Not since the first week they arrived on Army's Meadow had a representative of CHC inspected the camp. Either they were afraid of him or they trusted in his abilities, and Marsh Silas was certain it was the former.

The vox-set crackled and Drummer Boy adjusted the long-range frequency. A net call live from the battlefront was broadcasting.

"First wave...Chaos warband...eastern Cadian Primus...defeated. 2139th, 499th, 1567th Cadian Regiments wiped out. Survivors regrouping. Reinforcements requested..."

"By the Emperor..." Drummer Boy murmured. He reached into his tunic, retrieved the Gothic cross on his chain, and gripped it tightly.

"Thought it'd be worse than that," Marsh Silas sighed wearily. "We ought to be out clearing these shitholes and getting back to the real fight. We are wasted here, I tell you, wasted."

Like any true son or daughter of Cadia, Marsh Silas was a fighting man. Once the fears were shunted and the training kicked in, he was at home on the battlefield. Nerves wavered, held, and collected themselves. Even Cadians sometimes did not want to fight, growing fatigued of constant battles. But a few days in camp without anyone to shoot at and they were rearing for a fight.

It was one of the many reasons why Marsh Silas considered himself blessed by the God-Emperor to be a Cadian. The spirits of his ancestors, the millions of fallen Cadians, and the Emperor placed in him a fighting will that would never break.

Eventually, the Walmsley brothers arrived. Both wore cloaks over their fatigues, had M36's slung over their shoulders, and kept their arms folded across their chests to keep warm.

"We're your relief, Marsh Silas," said Walmsley Major.

"Please tell me I'm needed somewhere," sighed the platoon sergeant as he and Drummer Boy stepped out into the trench.

"You're always needed, Marsh Silas," said Walmsley Minor, extending a hand and pulling Marsh Silas out of the trench. When he was up, the latter wiped the snow covering the former's Aquila on his helmet. Walmsley Minor smiled amiably. "But there's nothing for you right now."

"I feared you'd say that," grumbled Marsh Silas. "Has the payroll or winter wargear arrived?"

"I've heard nothing," Walmsley Major said with a grunt of exertion as he hopped into the trench.

"By the Emperor I hope something happens soon," muttered the platoon sergeant. "Come, Drummer Boy. Let us find something hot to drink."

The pair decided to go warm up in the barracks. After clattering down the ladder, scattering so much snow at the bottom, they found Arnold Yoxall brewing some recaf at the communal stove. Both Marsh and Drummer removed their cloaks, helmets, and gloves, setting them down on the table. They unslung their lasguns and propped them against the edge.

Yoxall offered a kind smile.

"Fresh as it can be," he said as he filled two tin mugs. The pair gratefully accepted and gripped the tins with both hands. It was at a temperature which normally would have caused a palm to instinctively snap away. But their hands were so cold they held the cups just to heat up. As they carefully sipped and stepped from foot to foot, Yoxall started filling a fourth cup. Marsh Silas noticed and nodded at it.

"Someone else a-coming?"

"It's for the lieutenant."

Marsh Silas' inquisitive expression faded into one of annoyance. Lieutenant Hyram was bedridden with a severe case of trench foot. Or at least, that's what Honeycutt wrote down on the report to the regiment. In truth, Hyram was depressed, taken to his bunk, staring at the pict-captures of his wife and son. According to Honeycutt, he hardly ate and barely spoke. All he did was lie under his blanket, keeping it pulled up to his chin as he stared at the picts. Occasionally, he would extend a finger and gingerly touch the cheek of his wife or trace the face of his son.

Three days he remained in his bunk. Marsh Silas was cold when they last spoke, although now he was beginning to grow angry. Enough was enough, he decided. Pity could not replace reason.

After quickly downing his recaf, wincing as it burned his throat, he set the tin down.

"Arnold, I think it's time we did something about the lieutenant."

Yoxall gazed grimly at Marsh Silas.

"And what might that be?"

"Look, when Barlocke is gone, Hyram is all we'll have. Hyram can't lead a platoon and he can't hold up during or after combat. How are we to survive if we are poorly led?"

Yoxall drew closer.

"You're not talking about killing the man, are you?" he hissed.

"By the Emperor, no!" Marsh Silas snapped back. "That'd make us no better than the Traitor bastards. I say we tell Ghent, all proper like, of what's happening and let him do what he does best."

"Snitch? You can't be serious."

"It's for our survival," Marsh Silas corrected. He then added, "We serve the Emperor by being good Guardsmen. How can we be doin' that with a poor leader? See, the Emperor demands we serve. He demands that we sell our lives dearly if need be, but not needlessly so. Would He want us to die because of an officer's poor call?"

Arnold Yoxall shook his head.

"I doubt He would want us to turn in a fellow Cadian, a fellow _servant_, just because he's afraid. I think He would be rather ashamed of us, wouldn't you agree?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips, and looked at his feet. Wordlessly, Yoxall shoved the tin cup of recaf into Marsh's hand. "You're the platoon sergeant. Where you go, I go. What orders you give, I follow. Tis' my pledge. You outrank me. But as your mate, it would truly be a most despicable act."

He left after that, leaving Marsh Silas angry and red-faced. All he could do was refill his tin and try to regain his composure.

Arnold Yoxall and Marsh Silas lived the soldier's life together since they met during the latter's second year in the Youth Army. Sharing foxholes, digging trenches, staving off wave after wave of maddened Chaos followers; through so much hardship they grew close, just as the other men of Bloody Platoon were. War, in its infinite destructiveness, possessed the curious attribute of bonding Guardsmen to one another. Still, the sheer proximity of the soldier's life made it impossible for Guardsmen to be unacquainted with one another. Every trooper's mannerisms and habits were known to the rest of the platoon.

Marsh Silas was keenly aware of Arnold Yoxall's; he was a dedicated Cadian, deft with his craft, and more pious than the rest of the platoon put together. Each day, he rose before the roll call to utter a prayer and to start brewing recaf. When he was praying, he kept his head severely bowed to prove his piety to the God-Emperor. On missions which he took a lasgun, he believed it would be light duty. When he carried his meltagun, everyone knew he believed they were in for a rough time. Somehow, he was able to obtain an extra pair of identification tags. In addition to the originals which he wore around his neck, he kept the other pair somewhere else on his person in case he lost the originals. Like Marsh Silas, he enjoyed eating the imported rice which came with their rations and always tried to save a little extra for later. Out of the entire platoon, he was the third most frequent contributor to the communal chest, the second behind Marsh Silas and the first place belonging to gruff old Honeycutt. Most of all, he was a kind man with high morals and expected a lot out of his fellow Guardsmen.

It was no surprise he disapproved.

Drummer Boy's loud slurping interrupted Marsh Silas's thoughts. He drummed his fingers along the tin mug.

"Are you really gonna tell Ghent?"

"I don't know now," Marsh Silas muttered. "I just don't want to see any of the men killed because o' the lieutenant. Overton never led us into a bad fight. I think Hyram could. If we can get him outta here, our chances are better."

"Turning him over to Ghent would see him executed," Drummer Boy said quietly. He stared down into his mug. "I don't like him much either, Marsh Silas, but he don't seem like a bad man. I think..."

The vox-operator shook his head and shrugged. Marsh Silas's lips twitched into a soft smile. As the youngest man with the least experience, Drummer Boy was the kid brother of the entire platoon. Everyone else had six, seven, eight, or nine years of combat notched on their belts. Marsh Silas was still going after ten, while Babcock and Honeycutt were alive after a dozen. As such, Drummer Boy was rarely consulted or taken seriously by the other members of Bloody Platoon. They treated him well and loved him as a brother Guardsman, but never as a bastion of knowledge. When he spoke up, his words were deflected with humor and jest. Even Marsh Silas kept the Drummer Boy in check, believing he still needed to become at least a sergeant until he could begin voicing his thoughts.

Thinking if he broached his plan for Hyram to the other non-commissioned officers𑁋Walmsley Major, Holmswood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, Babcock, and Honeycutt𑁋he would receive mixed results.

"Speak up, lad," was all he said. Drummer Boy's face lit up, but he quickly reigned in his excitement.

"I think o' him as a Whiteshield. He's got some know-how, but not all the training pays off when you first fight. Gotta work things out. Remember how green I was?"  
"You still are," Marsh joked. Drummer Boy laughed a little.

"I think you ought to train'em up a bit, instead o' getting all sore of him. Teach him, like you taught us."

Marsh Silas did not speak for a moment. He was about to, but the words stuck in his throat. So instead, he looked down at his recaf, tracing the rim with his finger. It was all he could do, presently. When he finally looked up, he smiled kindly at Drummer Boy and nodded. Downing his drink, he set it on the table then clapped a hand on the vox-operator's shoulder. They lingered there, sharing a brotherly smile. Eventually, he let his hand drop and left to deliver the mug of recaf.

He found Lieutenant Hyram still in his bunk, the standard issue blanket pulled right up to his chin. Curled up on his right side, his back was to Marsh Silas. In his hand, he clutched the pict-capture of his son.

Hyram's wargear was carelessly spread across the room, half-unpacked. A small bucket in the corner reeked of urine and excrement. To any normal individual, this would have made their nose curl and their gut cringe. Guardsmen smelled much worse on a daily basis so Marsh Silas was largely unaffected, although still found it highly unsanitary.

Unsure of what to say or do, the platoon sergeant stood silently, dumbly, in the threshold. Steam continued to drift up from the recaf. He thought the strong smell would attract the junior officer's attention, but Hyram remained transfixed on the pict-capture.

Marsh Silas cleared his throat. Still, nothing. He took a single step.

"Sir?"

"Go away," came the response, muddied and muffled.

"Sir, I brought you some recaf. As the platoon sergeant I think you ought to drink it."

He set it down on the small, wooden table beside the bunk. "Now I'm no medic here, but a shot o' recaf is sometimes the difference between life an' death! Why, on a cold night, just one cup'll keep you warm for hours, and𑁋"

"Got plenty to drink, right here sergeant," Hyram slurred. He did not turn to face him. Instead, he reached under the blanket and pulled out a bottle of liquor. Marsh Silas was very surprised to see it.

Hyram tucked the bottle back up to his chest. He said nothing more. Marsh Silas squeezed his hands into fists, gritted his teeth, cursed under his breath, and left the room. Lieutenant Hyram. Inept, cowardly, and now, a drunk; he was going to see Ghent.

Storming by Drummer Boy and thundering up the ladder, Marsh Silas entered the cold again, if just to cool off. He did not know about people outside of Cadia, but he assumed that anyone who tried to change thoughts to kindness only to find them entirely wasted was cause for anger anywhere.

Back in the cold, he adjusted the strap of his lasgun and rubbed his hands together. Sure that his feet would carry him right down to the Commissar's office in the field headquarters, he was surprised by his hesitant boots. Instead, he tugged out his ebony pipe, tapped tabac into the bowl, lit it with a match, and began to smoke.

Finding the platoon leader drunk would certainly lead to a bolt shell in his skull. Ghent was as fair as a Commissar could be but he usually skipped corporal punishment and sought to solve a problem at its root, by tearing _out _the root. To see Hyram gone would put Marsh Silas at ease and he would gladly gamble for another officer. Yet he would be causing the man's death. Despite his apathy he was hesitating, and it bothered him greatly. Get rid of the cowardly drunk, and surely the men would receive a better officer. Yet the bureaucratic system of the Astra Militarum sent Hyram to Bloody Platoon; was there a chance they would send another fool? Was he too fixated on his old CO and friend, Overton? If he could not let go of that absence, would the boots of the platoon leader even be filled? Beyond that, he spent his soldier's life keeping his men out of the crosshairs of Commissar Ghent's bolt pistol. By the grace of the God-Emperor, he succeeded so far. Hyram would be the first man he neglected and that neglect would result in death. Could he live with that? After all, he was a platoon sergeant. Surely, the lieutenant was part of the platoon too.

"Could you live with it?"

Marsh Silas whirled around. Inquisitor Barlocke strode up. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled tight and low. The collar of his jacket was buttoned very tightly and his head was somewhat down, most likely against the biting wind.

"How did you...?"

"Silas, you are at war with yourself over this Hyram. You think him a threat to the livelihood of your men, yet isn't an indecisive platoon sergeant just as dangerous?" He did not give Marsh time to answer. "You must make a decision. Get rid of him, or help him as the Drummer Boy says."

Barlocke must have been listening and craftily followed when he left, Marsh Silas figured. But a pit in his stomach warned him there was more to it. Still, he was growing more upset now that Barlocke was besieging him once more with his riddle-like demands and prodding questions.

"If something is to be done, _you _do it." This made Barlocke raise his head and he flashed a nearly sinister smile.

"Only you have power in this matter, Marsh Silas. I cannot decide for you."

It sent a chill down his spine. Marsh Silas felt whatever defenses he had whither and dissipated. Any resistance he could offer melted and he felt exposed, like he was dashing across a field without any cover.

Barlocke then laughed, tipping his hat back. He took Marsh Silas by the shoulders. "Or maybe you are just torturing yourself. Decisions demand such but we can leave it be for now."

Stupefied, Marsh Silas did not speak or move. Barlocke threw one arm around his shoulders and began walking down the slope with him. Charity replaced the brief darkness which defined his expression mere moments ago. His posture and mannerisms were like that of a dearest friend.

How a man could veer from emotion to emotion so fast, Marsh Silas could not understand.

As they walked down the slope, Barlocke continued to speak. "Often I find a distraction helps when it comes to making a decision. Something to take the mind off matters."

"How can you make a decision if you don't think about it?"

"Oh, the mind works even if we occupy it with other thoughts. Leave it be and the answer might slowly make itself apparent to you." He paused to think, then laughed. "Or you might just have one stark realization and then you will know what to do. The way we make our choices is varied, Marsh Silas. You'll see this in time, trust me."

The camp proper was well populated. Men were drilling or standing watch. Enginseers maintained fortifications and vehicles. Officers inspected redoubts and lined up troopers. A Commissar was beating some serfs part of a work detail assisting some Guardsmen. Of the latter, they looked on with grim resignation as the Commissar brought the cat o' nine tails down again and again the serfs' backs. Near the southern edge of the camp, where the remaining untainted refugees were currently housed, they were working on a set of entrenchments as well. Colonel Isaev could have sent them to the nearest Kasr𑁋Kasr Sonnen, named for the nearby planet, or the planet named for the citadel, none knew𑁋but he decided to keep them. As he heard it, Isaev wanted to be sure the civilians were untainted before sending them away. To ensure their loyalty, he kept them as laborers.

Marsh's pity grew each time he clapped eyes on them. Among them, he saw the lady Asiah, eyes far away as she toiled to shore up a dugout. When she took a moment of respite, she looked around. Quickly, he averted his gaze. He did not wish to meet her eyes. She still believed her boy was out there, somewhere. Isaev would not permit a search. Marsh Silas, as much as he felt for her, agreed with the colonel.

A convoy rolled in and began unloading crates of wargear. It was the winter clothing requested by the regiment.

"I should see the wargear dolled out, sir."

"I'm sure the men are quite capable of doing so on their own. You mustn't baby them. Anyways, I wish to speak to you about the platoon."

Barlocke commended him on keeping the platoon drilled and busy. He could not help but notice, he remarked, many were still visiting Kine and the other priests. It was clear they were disturbed by their actions, no matter how justified it was by both military conduct and by the God-Emperor. At first, Marsh Silas thought this may have been admonishment, but he said that it was natural for men to feel that way. Cadians were accustomed to victory and defeat. They could stomach one or the other. To see innocents under their charge corrupted and then ended by their hands, was a disappointment difficult to bear.

Barlocke smiled kindly. "Much like you, I think the men of Bloody Platoon need a distraction."

"Give them some targets to shoot at, sir𑁋"

"Barlocke."

"𑁋Barlocke, if these gunmen can get back to work, the bloody work, if you'll allow it, they'll be fine."

"Gunmen," chuckled Barlocke, "why do you call them so?"

"They be men with guns," Marsh Silas answered flatly, thinking the reason quite obvious.

"In the same way a mason must set aside his tools to rest his arm, or the scribe his pen to rest his mind, so too must _men _with _guns_. Let us spend a night or two in the Kasr, instead of this camp. Warm beds, hot food, and drinks which burn our throats."

"We are not slated for furlough."

"Let us see about that," Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. "Go on, then, since you're so keen. Distribute the new fatigues to Bloody Platoon while I speak to the colonel."

###

Bloody Platoon, and the rest of the regiment, were soon clad in winter clothes. These were not just heavier versions of their standard issue fatigues, but rather fur-lined clothing, longer overcoats, and a thermal layer. Snowfall, as frequent as it was, did not build up like it did in other sectors. In sectors where it was nearly winter year round, troops were issued heavier fatigues of pure white or dark green camouflage, complemented by gray-white or lighter green flak armor. In the Fortis Sector, the plains were characterized by stubbly yellow grass which persisted throughout the colder months. Along with the rocky ridges, it was suitable to keep the standard issue tan coloration for fatigues.

Marsh Silas stood at the Chimera's rear and handed out all the new kits to the eager hands of his men. Each man said their thanks, murmured a grateful prayer, and quickly went back to the barracks to change.

He was glad to see them smile. Sometimes, he thought, all a Guardsman needed was a fresh change of clothes to feel good as new.

Walmsley Major came up next. He was rubbing his hands together. Marsh Silas gave him two kits.

"Minor's just behind me," the heavy gunner said, confused.

"Take that to the lieutenant's rack and leave it for him."

"But I have to get back on watch double-quick, Marsh Silas!"

"Is that a complaint I hear?" Marsh said with a frown. "Now, you will do as you are _ordered_, Guardsman. Remember that you're a Cadian, you're built of tougher stuff."

"Yes, Marsh Silas," Walmsley Major sighed. Marsh gave a firm clap on the shoulder.

"Besides, if I see him again today I'll likely shoot him."

This made Walmsley Major laugh. He took both kits and began to turn.

"Shoot who, Staff Sergeant?"

Marsh Silas snapped to attention as Commissar Ghent sidled around the vehicle's corner. The Commissar's back was very straight, his head high, and his hands were folded behind his back. On his left hip, his sword was sheathed, and his bolt pistol was holstered on the right. He inspected Marsh Silas from head-to-toe, then Walmsley Major, who was also at attention. "Be away."

"Sir, yes sir! Glory to the Emperor and the Imperium!" Walmsley Major shouted. He collected the kits and quickly jogged away.

"Marsh Silas, step over here with me. The rest of you, collect your uniforms, change, and return to your posts. Double-quick!"  
A cry of 'Sir, yes, sir!" rang out. The men charged the Chimera as if it belonged to the enemy and snatched up the kits. Commissar Ghent and Marish Silas walked towards the refugee quarters until the former stopped them at the edge of their camp. Again, Ghent looked him up and down. Marsh kept his heels together, back straight, chin out, and his chest out. Making a circuit around him, Ghent finally spoke.

"So who is it that you mean to shoot?"

"Sir, it was a joke, sir!"

"Of course it was." Ghent stopped in front of him, his heels clicking smartly. "I could not help noticing you and the Inquisitor speaking once again. He seems rather taken with you and your soldiering."

Unsure of what to say in return, Marsh Silas remained silent. Ghent gazed grimly at him, leveling his eyes. "I hope he is not planting any thoughts in your head. Think you're better than everyone else because you walk arm-in-arm with him? Fancy running off to become an Acolyte?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Really now? Doesn't that life seem infinitely more attractive to you? Better wages? Softer living? Less dangerous?"

Marsh Silas did not know the first thing about being an Inquisitor's Acolyte and wasn't even sure what one did. But he could tell Commissar Ghent was impatient for an answer he deemed acceptable.

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Hope to be an Inquisitor yourself someday!?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

Ghent grinned.

"Very good, Guardsman. We respect and obey the Inquisition, but remember, no service is as honorable or important as our own. The Inquisition is the protector of the Imperium, the Adeptus Astartes are its sword, and the Astra Militarum𑁋we are the hammer that crushes the foe! From the battlegroup to the regiment to the company right down the platoon, we are the hammer. Remember, Marsh Silas, the platoon cannot be beat."

"Yes sir, the platoon cannot be beat!"

"Who do we serve?"  
"The Emperor, sir!"

"I said who do we serve!?"

"_The Emperor, sir_!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

"Who are we!?"

"Cadians, sir!"

Ghent's smile faded and he snatched him roughly by his flak armor's collar.

"Never forget what you are, for I shall swiftly remind you."

He let go, causing Marsh Silas to nearly stagger. Still remaining at attention, he watched the Commissar march off down the line. Once he was out of earshot, Marsh Silas grimaced, spit, and turned around. As he did, he was surprised to see Asiah standing to the side, staring at him. A forlorn expression resided within her violet eyes. Wind swept her loose hair across her shoulders and tugged at her gown.

Unsure of what he ought to say, Marsh Silas followed his mother's old maxim: remain silent. Remaining so, he stared back at her.

He realized just how unused he was to seeing someone in civilian clothes. Most of the population was enrolled in some kind of service, whether it be military, bureaucratic, or in the foundry. From the Cadian Shock Troops down to the auxiliary soldiers and workers wore uniforms befitting of their station. The bureaucrats, for that matter, were mostly military men and women anyways, so they dressed similarly. Their outfits were characterized by more elegant armor patterns and finer fatigues. Even the foundry workers, who toiled day and night producing wargear, wore grab denoting them as laborers. Living on Cadia, their attire was definitely reminiscent of their clothing in the Guard. Seeing an _actual _civilian, in normal clothes without any military or soldierly denotations and stylizations was very jarring.

Putting his pipe back to his lips, he puffed a little. The cloud disappeared quickly in the wind. Asiah continued to stare.

Marsh Silas rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. He glanced back up towards the barracks. Bloody Platoon was returning to finish putting on their kits, walking past the Basilisk battery now stationed at the trenches overlooking the beach. The artillerymen camped nearby, impatient for any targets on the water. The heretics were playing it safe, keeping their boats moored at the docks. Despite urgings from regimental command, Barlocke insisted the pier needed to remain undamaged.

Asiah was still standing there. She was composed, but there was a sense of distraught about her. More so, she was clearly fatigued from the labor.

In a way, she reminded him of his mother coming home from the foundry late at night. Utterly exhausted, speaking slowly, nearly shuffering across the cramped kitchen of their apartment on Macharia. When they lived on Cadia, in the house he was born in, there were servants who took care of the cooking. Looking back, he thought it must have been difficult for someone to work all day long, come back in the dead of night, and then have to make dinner for herself and her son. It was like marching twenty kilometers and at the end the Commissar ordered the men on a ten minute PT run.

Thinking of his own mother, Marsh Silas felt pity rise in him.

"Miss, would you like to...I don't know, walk with me for a moment?"

Asiah lingered, then nodded.

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,184


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

* * *

Like his walk with Barlocke just a few days ago, he found himself among the yellow flower fields. They walked through the field to the right to the road. Second Company was conducting infantry formation drills on the left. While they stalked through the flowers with their lasguns raised and their shoulders hunched, Marsh Silas and Asiah walked very slowly with their backs erect.

She didn't speak much. Marsh Silas noticed she still kept the handkerchief he gave her in the pocket of her weathered jacket. Like Barlocke, she let her hands hang low and her slender fingers graced the petals.

He cleared his throat. "Miss, you cold?" Already clad in his new winter jacket, he thought about offering it to her. She was not shivering but he thought it polite. His mother always told him to be extra polite to ladies. His father, on the other hand, reassured him that Cadian women were very tough and good manners weren't as important as learning how to handle a lasgun. In this instance, he thought both parents possessed valid points and didn't see why both couldn't be applied.

Asiah just shook her head. Marsh Silas grunted. "Want to smoke?"

Again, she shook her head. He just sighed. There was nothing to say and nothing to do as they strolled through the flowers. Briefly, he turned his attention to Second Company across the road. As part of the drill, the pointmen would occasionally freeze, raise their fists to signal a halt, and stretch an arm. This was another signal indicating for the platoon to crouch. In a patrol stance, it was wise to just mimic the pointman or lead scout's movements until ordered otherwise. When the pointmen raised their fists and leveled their arms, Second Company disappeared from sight. Only the very tops of their olive drab tri-dome pattern helmets were visible.

"Are you allowed to be beyond the perimeter ?" Asiah suddenly asked.

"I'm pretty sure, miss," Marsh answered, looking over his shoulder. "Commissar Ghent ain't come to put a bolt shell in my skull so that's a good sign."

Asiah didn't laugh. She bent over and plucked the head of a flower from its stem. Slowly, she twirled it so the petals almost became a blur.

"I've never seen flowers before," she said. "They're rather pretty, don't you think?"

"Sure." Marsh Silas accompanied his answer with an unconcerned shrug. Asiah stepped in front of him, reached up, and was able to pin what was left of the green neck to his collar. He tried to peer down at it. "Hope mean old Ghent doesn't shoot me for being out of uniform."

It wasn't enough to make Asiah laugh. He wasn't sure what to say. So he relented, waving his hand almost as if in defeat. "I'm really sorry about your boy, miss. Damned sorry about all of them kiddies."

"My boy is not dead. He's out there, somewhere," Asiah said emotionlessly. Marsh Silas ran a hand down his face.

"Miss, we saw all them kids and your's wasn't among them."

He was saying it more for himself now. The fighting was so frantic and lasted only a matter of minutes, he wasn't sure if they were able to collect all of the children. But he looked. He _looked! _That rotting structure was empty, devoid of life, its occupants composed by three dead heretics. There were no children he saw. And he brought up the rearguard during their flight back to the hill. If any of the children were left behind, he would have seen them.

Yet, no one gave them the exact count of how many children there were to start with. Could one have slipped away prior to the rescue? He shook his head and did not want to torture himself further.

"He's alive."

"Unless you gotta direct link to the God-Emperor, miss, I'm gonna have to disagree with ya."

"Easy to make jokes, isn't it?"

"Wasn't meant to be one. It's the only way I can figure it." Marsh Silas waved his hand a little. "Your boy was important to you. I understand. But it's like the Commissars and the priests say, we can't just lie back when something awful happens. We have to keep up the fight, and keep serving the Emperor. Even if your boy was still here, _that _comes first."

Asiah stopped and turned to face him. Her hands were balled into fists and she was glaring at him.

"Do you have a son?"

Marsh Silas shrugged a little, bracing himself for the verbal berating. He waved his hand defeatedly and sighed.

"No, miss, I don't."

"Then how could you expect to understand to lose your flesh and blood?"

"Hey, I lost my father," Marsh snapped, "so I think I have some idea of what it's like."

"Then you have what I do not; peace. At least you _know _he is dead. But my boy..."

Marsh Silas threw his arms up in exasperation.

"Woman, I don't know why you keep doing this to yourself! It pains me, it really does, but the boy is dead. I wish we could o' done something, but we failed!"

"If_ you_ haven't seen him, and _I_ haven't seen him, and _no one's _seen him, there's no proof he's dead!"

"Proof? You want proof?" Marsh Silas pointed down the cape. "Get yourself a nine-seventy, tramp down the road, and take a look—"

Tears were streaming down Asiah's cheeks. Her expression remained angry, her brow furrowed, and her eyes glaring. Yet her lips trembled, her fists shook, and her eyes glimmered. The tears cut lines through the dust on her cheeks.

Marsh Silas could not stay angry. He eased his posture and softened his face. "Emperor take me, I'm most sorry."

"He's out there," she said bluntly. "If you had a boy of your own, you would not give up hope so easily."

Asiah turned around and began walking back to the base. She dabbed at her eyes with the same white cloth he gave her.

Marsh Silas half expected her to throw it away into the flowers, but she clutched it all the same. He felt more guilty than ever. Every Imperial citizen felt a degree of guilt, after all. The God-Emperor dedicated his life to creating, guiding, and protecting the Imperium and now he was entrapped on the Golden Throne. He always put the Imperium first and suffered for it. Guilt was a part of the Imperial Cult and thus the human spirit, or at least the faithful human spirit—this he learned as a youth attending the local fortified cathedral. Although, it was subtle and more innate than being a pervading presence on their shoulders. Some wore it heavier than others and many did not wear it with required reverence. Guardsmen were blessed by the Emperor, as their sheer amount of activity did not grant them enough time to kneel in a chapel. Morning, evening, and meal prayers were the most a regiment could manage even when encamped. Sometimes Guardsmen just had to whisper their prayers on the march as they cradled their holy icons.

He was faithful, and thus guilty by default. This he believed with all his heart, and it drove him to be a better servant of the Imperium. He lost men and friends before, and he regretted their deaths. Another degree of remorse. Yet this shame was different. It was more than a failure of an objective. This time there were faces, and they had to look defeat in the faces of tainted children and anguished parents. The grief was right there before them, and if they were faster and fought harder, just maybe it could have been prevented. Those children could have survived, rescued before they were corrupted. They should have survived. It was altogether right that they should; they would have become loyal citizens of the Imperium and the Guardsmen of tomorrow.

Should. Would. Could. These words never tormented him before in his life. He would have stood among the flowers for hours, but a biting wind blew through him and shook him from his thoughts.

Marsh Silas took the petal from his collar and held it in his palm. After staring at it for a time, he turned his hand over and let a gust of wind carry it away. Then, he clutched his collar tight and shut his eyes.

"Emperor, forgive me. Clear my mind, I beg Thee."

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned around. Of course, it was Barlocke.

"You'll never believe it, Silas," he said with a grin. "Two day's leave in Kasr Sonnen. Just you, me, and the men. They'll even give us transportation there."

Marsh Silas blinked.

"Just like that? How'd you manage to convince old Isaev to say yes?"

"Well, it wasn't so much convincing him as it was telling him what we were about, young sergeant!" Barlocke laughed. "Let's round up those bloody gunmen and head out!"

###

Bloody Platoon was very surprised and elated to be getting two days in Kasr Sonnen. It was in sight of Army's Meadow, although not a short journey away. The aged fortress-city was in a geographically advantageous position, sitting atop a low mountain range Cadians called the Dagger Mountains. To the west was the winding sea road and their cape, with little land for an enemy force to deploy and within the range of the Kasr's guns. Running north and south was the range itself, a series of irregular bluffs, ridges, hills, ravines, and crags. The north was flatter and spread out, while the south was more narrow and rocky. From an aerial view, it appeared like an ancient dagger, hence its name. While the Kasr proper occupied the highest, flattest peak, called the Cross-Guard, the ranges were honeycombed with tunnel networks, reinforced bunkers, and entrenchments. Landing or approaching from the north or south was hazardous for any attacking force.

The eastern approach provided the only viable land route up to Kasr Sonnen. Most of the east was flat land, exposed to the excellent field of fire to the long range artillery guns along the range. However, a minor continuan of the Dagger Mountains was Locket Mountain. It was smaller than the Cross-Guard, but formidable in its own right. Complemented by its own range of flat-topped hills and wide, bushy, rocky ridges, it was a natural obstacle for any land army. There was no approach for infantry and armor to outflank the ridges and hills.

The southeaster road—the only road—was split into three separate, smaller routes by the dense terrain which formed a semicircle at the base of Locket Mountain. The routes passed through natural gaps in the otherwise impassable ridges; these gaps were called Aust, Gallus, and Piscator, after famous Cadian generals. After the gap roads reconnected at the foot of Locket Mountain, the road wound up the steep slope until it came to Kasr Sonnen.

Marsh Silas observed the passing ridges and hills with a mixture of awe and apprehension. He felt very small among them, and not in a way he appreciated. One felt tiny in a Kasr too, but there was an aspect of security. For a Cadian native, there was also a sense of belonging. Cadians felt truly at home within the Kasr walls. Out here, among these ridges and hills, he felt like he was being watched. He hoped the ride would be over soon.

Soon enough, they convoy passed through the massive reinforced gate in the Kasr wall. Speed was reduced as they approached the checkpoint. A Commissar and an officer flagged them down. Barlocke clambered out of the Chimera and spoke to them. The engines were rumbling and Marsh Silas, standing in the open turret, was not able to hear them. But he could tell all were apprehensive to see the Inquisitor. Seeing the way some of the line troopers were glancing at each other, they were most surprised to see one.

After just a few minutes, the Commissar saluted, and waved. The checkpoint barrier was lifted and Barlocke began to return to the Chimera's side. Instead, he sidled up next to a trooper, spoke to him briefly, and then came over. Marsh Silas leaned over, extended his hand, and helped pull him up.

At a slow pace, the Chimeras proceeded down the sharp, jagged roads of Kasr Sonnen. Troops stood behind reinforced rockcrete barricades, Leman Russ main battle tanks guarded intersections, and heavy bolter barrels poked out of bunkers. Guard towers, pillboxes, blockhouses, barbed wire, high walls, heavy guns, sandbag emplacements were everywhere. On rooftops, beside the roads, in front of establishments, and on the walls themselves. So many robust spires, Almost every structure was surrounded by or bristling with Cadian troops and arms.

It made Marsh Silas feel very proud.

After a very short journey, they took a turn to disembarkation area. It served partly as a motor pool and as a zone in which incoming or outgoing personnel could be documented.

The Chimeras were registered by the gate personnel and parked. Many other vehicles were in the wide, heavily defended compound. Units of varying sizes from other regiments were also present.

However, passing the checkpoint and parking their vehicles were only the first steps in the entry process. Once all the men were out of the vehicles, they assembled in formation. A security team led by a Commissar searched all of the vehicles. Their goal was to find any suspicious or dangerous items left behind. After they finished, Enginseers proceeded to check the Chimeras, assessing the vitality of their Machine Spirits and ensuring the vehicles were properly maintained. Finally, an Officio Medicae team surveyed the vehicles for any signs of disease or bacteria.

Once the vehicles were cleared, the Commissar reviewed the assembled unit. Whether it was an entire regiment or a squad on Kasr leave, they were scrutinized. The Commissar conferred with the unit's present senior personnel, confirming the member's name, rank, and unit. Then, the present troopers as a whole were identified. The information from the initial gate checkpoint was then cross-examined to confirm the Commissar's findings.

If all appeared in order, the Commissar passed them off to an Astra Militarum officer who would take them to a processing facility within the compound. All members of the unit were registered in the Kasr's security database and designated accordingly to their purpose within the fortress-city. For Guardsmen on leave, they would be labeled as 'Detached from Regiment, Under Arms.' It was a designation code for armed Guardsmen on leave who could be called to a Kasr's defense in an emergency despite not being with their regiment. It was a standing order on Cadia for all troops, whether on leave or not, to keep their arms and armor. Chaos or xeno incursions were so common that all available troops needed to be at the ready. It was because of this standing order that Bloody Platoon and the rest of the regiment were able to recall so quickly upon the Inquisitor's arrival.

Once the registration was complete, the troops were subjected to a medical screening conducted in a connected Officio Medicae facility. The screening was two-fold; the first part inspected their belongings, the second their health. In general, all the gear was cleaned, scrubbed, steamed, and otherwise rendered sterile. Orderlies, assisted by servitors, carried out these tasks. While the cleansing was ongoing, doctors checked the naked Guardsmen with servo-skulls implanted with diagnostors. If a trooper was found to be infected with a common virus or other treatable illness, they were simply quarantined, monitored, and given medicine. When deemed not to be contagious, they were released. Others, carrying more severe diseases, were rarely seen again.

Bloody Platoon well remembered the disappearance of a fellow they called 'Primus' Tor. He was complaining of headaches when they arrived on leave. After registering, he went into an examination room but he did not come out the other side. All recalled him being a decent man.

When the medical inspection concluded, all who were cleared proceeded to a large community washroom. The walls were lined with showerheads, sinks, and mirrors, and long metallic benches ran through the center. These benches could be moved to become a barricade in case of a breach.

Here, the men were given grooming kits in order to bathe. It was required that the personnel also brush their teeth, as well as shave and trim their hair to meet Astra Militarum regulations.

If the Emperor's light was shining on a trooper, he was placed in a base that had showers. Army's Meadow was fitted with a shower rig, but they were open, exposed to the elements, the pressure was low, and hot water was limited. Here in the Kasr, the stream was strong, the water remained hot, and the room filled with steam.

Marsh bowed his head under the water, scrubbing the accumulated grit out of his hair. Water flowed down the back of his head, the front, and the sides. He could hardly hear a thing. When he finally lifted his head, he took a long breath and happened to look left. Standing under the showerhead beside him as Barlocke.

Many of the Cadians in Bloody Platoon were of sinewy builds. A few, like Marsh Silas, bore strong, defined frames. Barlocke, despite being slender, was rippling with defined musculature. However, a multitude of scars marked his body. There were pale bullet pocks, faded scars from a saber slash or dagger point, and the irregularly-shaped, brownish, splotch where plasma, laser, or fire once grazed him.

He couldn't help but wonder how a man who saw that much action managed to survive. Marsh Silas had fought for a standard decade but that was due more to the Emperor's grace than any amount of skill. Perhaps the God-Emperor favored Barlocke. He was an Inquisitor, after all.

Finally, the men would be inspected once more by medical personnel. If they passed the medical inspection, their clean and fresh belongings were returned to them. All would dress and reassemble in a compound on the opposite side of the facility. Another officer reviewed the troops, again in formation, cross-referenced their registration information, and then allowed them to depart.

Marsh, now clean shaven and his hair neatly combed, stood beside Inquisitor Barlocke in front of the platoon. The air around the men smelled of pungent soap and uniform linens still warm from the steam press. Their freshly polished flak armor glowed dull in the light pollution of the Kasr. Cool wind tugged at their long coats as the first lieutenant before him checked his dataslate. It was very chilly and it was beginning to snow. Eventually, he nodded and cleared them. He saluted Barlocke and departed.

The platoon and their Chimera complement were reformed into a column by Marsh Silas. When they were ready, he spun around on his heel to face Barlocke. The Inquisitor was watching with interest.

"Ready to move out," Marsh said. After a brief pause, he added, "where exactly are we going?"

"You shall see. Follow me!" Barlocke turned on his heel and began strutting down the street.

"Forward, march!" Marsh Silas cried. Just as they began moving, Barlocke turned around, still walking.

"And why not sing us a little tune, young sergeant!"

Marsh Silas grinned a little, and then looked to his right. He spotted a trooper in the column whom they called Monty Peck. This man was a Cadian through and through, but was noted for his wonderful singing voice. Singling him out, Marsh called on him to sing along.

"_Scale the Kasr's tower,_

_to taste the maiden's flower._

_I hope it isn't sour!_

_Oh, I hope it isn't sour!_

_She might begin to glower,_

_At my coming at this hour._

_My, she's awfully dour!_

_Of course she's awfully dour!_

_But I've come too far to cower,_

_She's yet to feel my power. _

_Yes, I aim to plow'er!_

_Tonight, I aim to plow'er!_

Everybody snickered at the tune. It was one they all knew from their days in the Youth Army. Marsh Silas and Monty Peck repeated it several times while Barlocke led them down the jagged roadways.

Along the way they passed a great many people. Other Guardsmen on leave, who maintained a disciplined appearance. Guardsmen assigned to the defense of Kasr Sonnen, standing watch at the numerous reinforced checkpoints or on patrol. Mingling between the two were auxiliary personnel who were drilling in available areas. Only a few civilians were seen; the shift change at the factorum had not changed yet. When the shifts changed, the streets would come alive with civilians, flooding from their homes and the facilities they worked like so many insects from a hive.

Despite Kasr Sonnen's irregular roadways, banks of weapon emplacements, and lines of stalwart defenders, grand Imperial architecture was everywhere. With a thin layer of soft white snow upon everything, it looked even more beautiful than before. At an intersection, a grand statue of a fallen hero would stand. One was of a Space Marine from the Angels of Vigilance, who called Pervigilium their homeworld. Although Marsh Silas never personally clapped eyes on these fabled warriors, he felt all the more secure by their presence in the Cadian Sector. Other statues depicted various Cadian generals and Guardsmen, as well as Sisters from the Adepta Sororitas. Many who were not of the Fortress World laid down their lives on the planet's surface, and it was all the Cadians could do to honor them.

At one barracks compounded they passed, there was a massive pillar with a golden Aquila topping it. In the center of the city, there was a fortified cathedral. The structure stood tall and there was a massive circular window over the wide entrance. Every so often they'd pass a series of statues, representing events from famous battles. Thongs of Guardsmen raising flags, heroically charing, or standing stoically, were just some of these depictions.

Many walls were covered in tall posters. Some called for enlistments, featuring an officer pointing towards colorful explosions. Another poster called for vigilance, showing lines of Guardsmen with their weapons shouldered and their bayonets pointing skywards. One demanded obedience to the God-Emperor, featuring a stern-faced Commissar pointing towards the viewer. Stylized portraits of Cadia's many famous soldiers and heroes were portrayed.

It made Marsh Silas very proud, and thankful, to be from such a prestigious world.

Eventually, Bloody Platoon arrived at a quarter of Kasr Sonnen devoted to entertainment. One street in particular was defined by a number of taverns and officer halls. were placed for Cadian Guardsmen to eat warm food and bed down during their leave, although many took the opportunity to consume alcohol that was beyond their normal liquor ration. Besides the fortifications, they might have appeared as any other saloon on an Imperial world. A bar, tables, chairs, some musical entertainment, and an adjoining apartment complex for troops to sleep in. Officer halls were dignified establishments reserved for the Cadian elite. Here, lavish food was served, gentle music played, and many officers could find a noble Cadian lady on his arm. Enlisted men were never allowed in.

As the column broke up, Barlocke led the way into a tavern called the 'Gunner's Joint.' When they barged in through the reinforced double doors, they were met with a scene of troops sitting at tables. All were drinking, smoking, eating, chatting, or playing a card game. But they all stopped when they saw the Inquisitor. The music stopped and it became dead silent. A haze of lho-stick smoke hung in the tavern, which reeked of alcohol and roasting meat. Barlocke, Marsh Silas, and Bloody Platoon stared through the cloud and the occupants stared back.

Suddenly everybody snapped up and stood at attention. Marsh Silas looked at Barlocke, who glanced at him, and winked.

"Everybody out!" Barlocke shouted. "By order of the Holy Inquisition!"

Immediately, all the Guardsmen present put out their lho-sticks, slugged their last drinks, and gathered their kits. In less than thirty second, all had left for another tavern. Only the bartender and his staff remained, shaking in their boots.

Barlocke elbowed Marsh Silas's bicep. "Now we have the place to ourselves."

Bloody Platoon dispersed throughout the tavern. Everyone set their kits down in an open space near the door and braced their weapons against one another. Men placed their orders, took up card games, and lit their lho-sticks. Soon, everybody was chatting quietly, drinking, and eating some half-decent food.

Marsh Silas followed Barlocke over to the end of the bar, taking the furthest stools on the right. Barlocke took the end seat, Marsh the second to last, and the Walmsley brothers sat to his left. On the rare occasions they earned Kasr leave, Marsh liked to sit in between the Walmsley's. They were both characters, easy to speak with, and were always pleasant company. Next to Arnold Yoxhall, he served with them the longest. It was obvious when he sat next to Barlocke, they were confused by the disruption to their usual seating arrangements.

Both ordered Amasec and drank up. Marsh sighed contentedly while Barlocke eyed the glass.

"Pretty good stuff, isn't it?" Marsh asked.

"I've had far better, but what can you expect from an import? I've been to many places and tried a great deal of liquor. I almost tried Fenrisian Ale the Space Wolves are so fond of, but I wasn't sure I'd survive. Those Wolves are _good _company." Barlocke laughed a little. Marsh huffed.

"Besides the low-grade liquor ration we get, this is all we get on Cadia. Well, us gun men at least." He ordered a refill then drank it in one slug. Barlocke watched him curiously, then shrugged.

"I suppose I can't be choosy," he said and downed his own glass. After letting it settle, he doffed his hat on the bar top and leaned forward. Marsh Silas, meanwhile, took out his ebony pipe, sprinkled the tabac leaves in, lit them, and began smoking. The Inquisitor took notice, and the staff sergeant offered it. Smiling generously, Barlocke to the pipe, puffed on it, took a long drag, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he took the pipe from his lips, and exhaled a great deal of pale gray smoke. "Now, _that's _very good."

"Smooth, eh?"

"Indeed," Barlocke said. He turned the pipe around and observed the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. Rubbing his thumb across it several times, he chuckled and gave it back. "Such a fine pipe. Did you have to trade for it?"

"It was my papa's pipe."

"Some family heirlooms are swords, others are tomes, but for good Marsh Silas, it's a pipe," Barlocke said, smacking him on the back. Marsh chuckled just a little.

"About all he could pass down."

Barlocke turned in his seat so he could face Marsh. He propped his elbow up on the bar top and rested his cheek on his raised fist. A smile crossed his pale face.

"Tell me, Silas, how is a Militarum man like you not across the road in that officer's hall?"

"Some o' the noncoms in the regiment don't like me much, not to mention I kin' barely read."

"Hayhurst thinks jus' because I was friends with the last platoon leader, fellow by the name of Overton, I didn't earn the promotion to platoon sergeant." He remembered the first sergeant yelling at him in regimental command not too long ago. "He's right about the sword. It was Good Ol' Overton's, and he gave it to me before his transfer went through. I didn't earn it."

"Don't let the jealousy of Hayhurst alter your perception, young sergeant. A gift that sword is, but you know how to wield it. Who cares if a man has earned a weapon or not, so long as he knows how to use it?"

Marsh, who had his cip refilled again, turned it with his free hand. He felt Barlocke staring at him and looked back.

"I reckon so," he finally answered. "But I like being a sergeant. I know what I'm doing here. Jus' what an officer is supposed to do, I know not."

"You seem to know enough that Hyram isn't fulfilling his duties," Barlocke retorted, "you say an officer's position is foreign to you, yet you presume to dictate what that gentleman is to do?"

Marsh Silas frowned.

"No. Well, I mean, jus'...look, I know he's got to lead the men and he's got to fight. He ain't done that."

"Surely, he did during our previous action. It must be why you haven't thrown him to Ghent."

Marsh Silas wasn't sure what to say but the double doors opened again, and that caught their attention. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a number of off-duty female Cadians from the Interior Guard filter into the tavern. At first they seemed surprised by how empty it was, but settled in all the same. Some began drinking, a few ordered some hearty meals, others joined the card tables, and a few immediately went up the stairs to the apartments. Some Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon followed.

Taking a sip of his drink, Marsh turned to face Barlocke.

"Look, it ain't about what the fellow's gone and one. It's about what he _ain't_ done. He just isn't fit to be leadin' troopers like us. We're all veterans, even Drummer Boy. Me and some of the other men are slated for the Kasrkin if we serve well enough and long enough. If we's to keep fighting for Emperor and Imperium, a good leader is what we be needin'."

"Some great leaders are forged in battle. Some are born. Others are molded," was all Barlocke said.

"Why you talk like that? Why you always be talking in flowery ways that sound like some, some, riddle?"

Barlocke shrugged coyly.

"Just how I speak, young sergeant. I beg your pardon if I vex you."

"Vex?"

"Confuse."

Marsh shook his head and finished his drink. The Amasec was sitting comfortably but he was rather annoyed with Barlocke. It was he who said, after all, some quiet time in the Kasr would alleviate the weight upon his shoulders. Sitting side by side, the Inquisitor saw fit to test him, prod him, and make him feel stupid. Often, he thought he was but did not need others to remind him.

Barlocke didn't seem to grow his mounting aggravation. His attention was on the women. Many bore battle wounds, fresh as well as ancient. More members of Bloody Platoon were breaking off, silently joining the women heading up to the apartment section.

"I didn't realize your women were so keen to take men to private rooms," Barlocke said, amused. "I've been on worlds where women didn't even so much as look at a man."

Marsh looked at one of the women. She had short, curly hair that was blonde like his. Her smile was quite pleasant and her violet eyes glowed wonderfully. One of the Chimera drivers was talking with her. A few moments later, the two headed upstairs.

"I doubt they want anything to do with you," Marsh said. "They be wanting Cadian sons from Cadian men."

Barlocke seemed like he was about to say something witty or clever, but stopped short. His expression became curious. Marsh, who just had his glass filled, was about to take a slug, noticed the confused look. "Those women don't want some off-worlder's seed. They're Cadian women, so they want a Cadian fellow," he said, the edge of the glass a few standard inches from his lips.

"You mean it's not just some simple, fun tryst?"

Marsh Silas put down his glass and explained that as soon as Cadians came of age, they were encouraged to mingle with the opposite sex. It was drilled into them from a very young age that reproduction was key for the Fortress World. Common phrases officials on the planet used were, 'If you do not have children, who will fight the wars of tomorrow?' 'Who will hold the line when we are gone? Your children.' 'It is not a pleasure. It is a duty.' Those spaces on the second floor of the tavern, Marsh went onto explain, weren't just so off-duty troopers could have a place to stay for the night. It was so men and women had easy access to space in which they could perform their duty to the planet. There was nothing simple or fun about it.

Throughout the explanation, Barlocke's face darkened with disgust. His lips pursed and his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bitterly repugnant. Eventually, he turned in his seat so he was facing forward. It was almost like he could not stand looking at the women anymore. Marsh Silas eyed him curiously, then turned as well. He raised his glass and began to drink.

Barlocke shook his head. "So there is no love. Children are born, then they die. I have been to many places, Mash Silas, and to see one more devoid of the passion between humans cuts deep into my soul."

Marsh Silas finished his drink and set the cup down on the bar top hard.

"It's for Cadia. It's the Imperium. It's for the Emperor," was all Marsh Silas said.

"I don't think He would want such a thing for his people."

"Should we stop having children then? Because there goes Cadia. And if Cadia falls, what happens then?"

"That's not what I mean!" Barlocke responded sharply. "I wish things were different for the Imperium, so we didn't have to practice such things."

Snickering, Marsh turned and faced him.

"So, let's go to the Eye of Terror, kill all within, and bring peace," he said jovially. Barlocke stared into his violet eyes, his own growing very dark.

"It's just a joke to you, isn't it?" he said slowly. "You fight, you fuck whoever ends up in your bed, and sometime later your child is born. You are unknown to them, and they are absent from your mind. You're a young man and you've been with many women, haven't you? How many exactly, I wonder. Twenty? Fifty? A hundred, perhaps? How many heirs of Silas are there, then?"

"Enough, man." Marsh's brow was furrowed and his teeth were beginning to clench.

"How many sons? How many daughters? How many, how many, young, courageous, Silvasnus?

"Would you just shut up?" Marsh Silas said. He was clutching his pipe in his left hand, which was shaking awfully. Barlocke drew closer, sinister and accusatory.

"How many find themselves in your Youth Armies? How many have died already? How many, Silvanus? How many sons, how many daughters?"

"Leave me alone," Marsh said through gritted teeth.

Barlocke withdrew slightly, observed him for a moment, then put on his hat. He left some money on the bar top, gathered his kit, and proceeded to walk out of the tavern. Marsh Silas watched him go and asked for another refill. As he sat, he folded his arms on the table. Both of his feet were braced on the rung around the stool, and he was stamping his right foot very quickly against. The hand which held his pipe continued to shake. He was so angry he didn't notice the freshly fill glass in front of him or that his pipe was steadily burning out. Suddenly, he dropped his pipe on the bar top, leaped off the stool, and barged outside.

The snow was still falling steadily. Kasr Sonnen was covered in a thick layer of white. It appeared that the cold drove everyone else in; even the guards who were previously stationed along the roadway were gone from their posts. Jovial music drifted from the officer's hall and the light within flowed through the windows, illuminating the road and the falling snow. Barlocke had already crossed the road and turned to walk back the way they came. "Hey!" Marsh Silas called out to him. The Inquisitor stopped, but did not face him.

Squeezing his hands into fists, approached the barricade at the road's edge. "I've had enough. Jus' who are you? You're an agent of the meanest, baddest branch o' the whole Inquisition, and yet you've always got a smile, you've got a story to tell, some lesson to teach and you're kinder than my own family ever was to me. What are you about, man? Be you an Inquisitor, or some imposter who took up the black jacket?"

But there was no reply. Snowflakes gathered on Barlocke's hat and shoulders, and nestled into Marsh's hair. "Before you came here, everything made sense. I kept my men alive and fought for my Emperor. Since you arrived, I've been fretting and worrying and puzzling about everything it seems like. Keep your mind clear and closed, that's what the Commissars, the priests, my instructors, _everybody _has ever taught me. And you seem like you be wantin' to unmake that! Like you want to unmake me!"

He softened his tone and his fists uncurled. Marsh Silas shook his head. "I was happy in my service. I just want to do my part. Why do you have to torture me so? Why?"

"Because, Silvanus," Barlocke began, "I want you to be the individual you ought to be. Not some mindless drone serving as an instrument to the Astra Militarum. I want you, _need _you, to see that not all is well in our Imperium. You must grow, Marsh Silas."

He turned, finally. "I want you to use the mind the Emperor gave you. Open your mind not to the machinations of our dark foes, but to the prospects of what humans can be under His will. We cannot be the greatest in the galaxy if we do not attempt to learn, Silvanus. If you do not learn, you will not grow. If you will not grow, you will be nothing but an automaton. If you continue as such, you have failed the God-Emperor and Imperium.

Then, the Inquisitor smiled kindly. "Do you think the Emperor rose to His power because he closed his mind? No! He learned, he taught himself; he created questions, and answered them. Do you think I came to my position by lack of initiative or trapping myself in my own mind? No. It is because I studied, because I learned, because I grew."

"Open my mind?" Marsh Silas echoed. "No, you're trying to trick me. You're a psyker, after all!"

Barlocke laughed at this.

"Did you only just figure it out or were you waiting for the right moment to tell me?"

"You're playing with my mind, trying to fill my head with...with..."

"Heretical thoughts?" Barlocke shook his head. "No, I've never used my powers to manipulate you. I've peeked now and again, certainly, but never tried to use you. Nor am I trying to turn you away from the Emperor. I'm trying to guide you back to Him. I want you to become the man you _can _be. You can't become that man if you don't try to answer the questions before you, and make decisions of your own will, the very same willpower our Emperor gave us."

Marsh Silas did not respond. He could not. Barlocke stared at him, wearing a curious expression. He then crossed the street, strode right up to Marsh, and placed a hand on his cheek. "Still don't believe me? Still think I'm speaking heresy?" He didn't wait for Marsh to answer. "Your soul, your mind, your will; why would the God-Emperor bestow these faculties to you, if he did not want you to use them?"

Barlocke's hand dropped, he turned around, and began walking away. He raised his left arm again, fist clenched. "I'm going to help you, Marsh Silas. I'll show you. But it all comes down to you."

He lowered his arm and departed. The sharply changing sidewalk was illuminated by intervals from street lamps. Under these, Inquisitor Barlocke walked, appearing in light, disappearing in darkness, returning and leaving again, again, again. Then, he was gone. Marsh Silas stood and stared until a shiver roused him from his stupor. Turning, he went back inside.

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,695


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

"Spit it out, you ain't got ta' swallow it," Marsh gasped, letting go of the woman's hair.

Panting heavily, he turned around and zipped up his trousers. Taking a cloth resting on the edge of the bed, he wiped the sweat from his broad chest. Afterwards, he swabbed the back of his neck and face. Finished, he put on his green undershirt and his tunic. He was going to take his winter coat and leave, but he decided to sit down on the edge of the bed.

Over the bed was another poster, calling on Cadians to do their duty. It featured two Guardsmen; the one on the left was a man, the one on the right was a man. Behind them was a warm light emanating from a figure that took on the vague appearance of the Emperor.

The woman was the one he noticed earlier. Vibrant violet eyes, tiny soft blonde curls falling around her ears, an endearing smile. He had not learned her name in the solar hour's time they spent together. She was from the Interior Guard, but he knew that by her uniform hanging a chair across the room.

Marsh Silas judged she was a few standard years older than him. She was plain of body, with an average bust and somewhat shapely thighs. A light brown scar ran horizontally at the bottom of her stomach. Besides a blemish here and there, she was ordinary. In the past, he shared his bed with women who were far more homely in both face and body.

Such appearances mattered little Marsh Silas, presently as well in years past. Always, he saw them as fellow soldiers performing a duty just as important as fighting on the frontline. Conversation came easily. Battle tales were swapped and usually their home Kasrs came up too. Every so often he would come across someone from Kasr Polaris and discussion became very pleasant. What streets they grew up, the regiments their parents served in, and which schools they went to were shared. It was like coming across a long-lost sister.

Tonight, Marsh Silas couldn't make the words come out. Instead, he silently watched as she went over to her belongings on the chair. First, she picked up her wristwatch and checked the time. It was getting late. Then, she took out her own handkerchief and patted herself down. In the dull light, her pale body glistened with sweat. She was fit, though not of well-defined musculature like Cadian Shock Troops.

After a few moments, she noticed him staring. Their violet eyes met for a few moments, before she resumed cleaning herself. Marsh Silas lowered his eyes to the floor, and rested his hands on his thighs. Nervously, he ran the flats of his hands up and down, stopping at mid-thigh and kneecap. As he did, she went to the bathroom with the cloth. He heard water running for a few seconds. A moment after it ceased, she walked out, sat down, and pressed the damp, cool cloth to her forehead. After inhaling, she looked over at him.

"You weren't supposed to do that," she finally said, startling Marsh.

"I know," he grumbled. She brushed some of the curls from her eyes, turned, and glared at him.

"Care to tell me why?"

Marsh Silas frowned. At first he wanted to say he didn't need to answer a rank-and-file trooper from the Interior Guard's impertinent question. No matter how honorable and valiant the Interior Guard's actions were, they would never see service off the planet. In the Cadian Shock Troops, they were on demand by the Astra Militarum across the entire Imperium! But he quelled such impulsiveness; swiftly he reminded himself the 1333rd was not going to see action off Cadia anytime soon.

So, he leaned back a little, looked away, and acted in an unconcerned fashion.

"You've already had enough men on you tonight," he told her, "I doubt I'd make much of a difference at this point."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"It is our duty," she responded. Marsh Silas felt uncomfortable and did his best to hide the expression on his face. He wanted to ask her if she ever grew tired of it. Did she feel like an animal on an Agri-World, bred over and over again to produce younglings for the slaughter. Did it feel like duty, or was it something she grudgingly put up with so as not to fall under suspicion of neglect?

In the end, he did not have the courage to utter those words. He was afraid she would run out to the nearest Commissar and accuse him of heretical thought.

"How many children have you born?" was all he asked. The lady paused, looked up quizzically, then proceeded to put her clothes back on.

"Thirteen. I bore my first when I was fifteen," she answered flatly as she slid her heavy socks on. "With the Emperor's blessing, I'll have another."

All Marsh could do was nod. The number astonished him. How was there time for fighting if she had that many children. He was an only child; he couldn't imagine his poor mother delivering eleven more. Not just the pain of birth, but carrying one for so long, and one after the other no less.

"Do you ever think about them?" Marsh Silas asked. The question slipped from his lips before he had time to consider it.

The woman, who was now mostly dressed, looked at him. She seemed very confused.

"Why would I?"

Marsh Silas blinked.

"They're your children, your flesh and blood. Do you not bear love for them?"

The lady scoffed and approached him.

"Gone soft have you, Shock Trooper? My children were whisked away from me as soon Medicae surgeons cut them from my belly. Wherever they dwell, they do so in the protection of the Kasrs and the guidance of the soldiers who fought before us. The sooner they learn, the sooner they can get into the fight. There is no time for love. Let the nobles fret about where to send their pampered sons and daughters. For us, the common soldiers, we must bolster the ranks."

She lifted her shirt and ran her hand across the scar. "Each time I have brought life into the world, it is here they've cut. This is no scar; tis' a_ glorious_ badge of honor. I have born Cadians who will hold the line against heretic, xeno, and mutant one day. I am proud to bring such soldiers into the service of the God-Emperor."

Marsh Silas had not been able to look at her for more than a few moments. He imagined this woman upon the operating table, surrounded by doctors, orderlies, Sisters Hospitaller, and Medicae servitors. The knife caught the stark white light of the operating theatre as it came down upon her flesh. From the bleeding opening they pulled the babe, crying out pathetically. A pair of gloved hands took the babe, and then disappeared as the incision was stitched.

Did those tiny, helpless hands grope for mother and father's embrace? No matter if they did or not, they were placed in some dark, cold place, and cared for by an indifferent person. Of course, the Emperor needed soldiers for the wars of tomorrow. Yet, did He want them raised like that? If He influenced everything, Marsh Silas wondered, why did He give loving parents to him and not to other Cadian babes? How could He make such decisions?

His thoughts were suspended when the woman came up to him. She wore a grim smile. "Any woman who mewls at the loss of their babe is a weakling, unfit to call themselves a Cadian. Any children they produce will be fragile, sickly, and unworthy to bear arms for the God-Emperor. Those who carry themselves with piety and strength, will bring strong warriors for tomorrow into the Imperial fold. You'd do well to remember that, Guardsman."

With that, she departed.

Marsh Silas sat in the room alone for a long while. Her words rang in his ears along with the echoes of Barlocke. All his life, he was taught to close his mind like the gates of a Kasr and keep all foreign ideology out. If the gates were left open, the mind was left defenseless to heretical ruminations and the vile influence of xenos. Such rhetoric not only seemed logical to his own ears, but it meant something to him. If he could keep out the temptations of all others, he would be all the better for it. All attention could be focused on the service the Emperor required of him and the men under his command.

Was that not what the Emperor wanted of him? The rigor of his youth would not have been enforced if He had not willed it. Barlocke seemed to think that was all ludicrous. Why? An open mind was an exposed mind, just like a Kasr! How could one open it and learn without falling into the sway of the enemy?

The very concept was muddying his mind. Marsh wanted clarity. Making the sign of the Aquila, he brought his hands close to his chest. He begged the Emperor to give him purity of thought, to be free of confusion, and to show him what was right. Murmuring prayers, quietly singing pious songs he learned in the Polaris cathedral, and alternating between forming the Aquila and rubbing his prayer beads brought calm.

Was this not what Barlocke spoke of? Filling one's head with questions and leaving them to find the answers on their own. It seemed much easier said than done.

What he learned in his youth couldn't be wrong. From the drill instructors in the training yard to the priests in the cathedral, he saw them as the most loyal, pious, incorruptible servants of the Imperium. Faithful individuals could never be wrong.

Furthermore, there was the question of Barlocke's mystique. Could he be trusted? None of his characteristics were that of the witchhunters he ever heard about. Quick to accuse, persecute, judge, and purge; that's how he perceived them. Cadians who served off-world and, under the Emperor's protection, managed to return home told terrible tales. Entire worlds reduced to husks under the nondiscriminatory Exterminatus, killing traitors and loyal citizens alike. Whole regiments wiped out for the slightest sign of treachery or swathes of accused shackled and taken away. Did his failing to meet the witchhunter legends make him less or more trustworthy?

Loyal and understanding as he was to his betters, like many others, he wondered how many innocents died unnecessarily. Soldiers could not help but ponder that; their business was killing and they wanted to kill the right foes. Marsh Silas equated them to the likes of Commissars. Throughout his days as a Guardsman, he saw too many brave friends shot or punished for the slightest infractions. Once, he saw Ghent execute a fellow from Second Platoon by the name of Adriaan for staying behind cover for too long during an assault. Heavy bolter fire was spraying from an entrenched Chaos position and poor Adriaan ended up right in front of it. Guardsmen were taught to wait for heavy weapons such as those to reload before attempting to move. Adriaan didn't move fast enough for the Commissar.

Did good men and women have to die unnecessarily? What were the consequences of killing loyal Guardsmen and faithful civilians by the thousands? How did one reach that decision and condemn countless Imperial citizens? Surely, it was their training and doctrines that saw it done. Yet, did that make it right?

No, no, no. He was going into that place again. Marsh Silas clasped his prayer beads tightly as he made the sign of the Aquila. For a great while, he prayed for guidance and clarity. When it came, he decided he would rejoin his mates and refuse further contemplation.

Leaving the room, he met Arnold Yoxhall in the hallway. His face was coated in a thin film of sweat. Apparently, he had been doing his duty too.

"Giving up so soon?" the demolition expert asked.

"Jus' wanted to have another drink with the men."

"You won't find much company down there; most of'em are putting the women on their backs and will stay bunked here."

Prior to retreating upstairs, Marsh Silas made sure to register their sleeping arrangements with the watch officer who made the hourly inspection. The men were free to sleep in the tavern for the remainder of their stay. It turned out to be a rather comfortable place. Barlocke, never having been to Cadia, seemed to have picked well.

"Well, it's a quiet drink for me then," Marsh replied with feigned enthusiasm. He wished for the company of the Walmsley Brothers or Drummer Boy.

Yoxhall patted him on the shoulder.

"I'd join ya but there's some seeds need sowing," Yoxhall said with a smirk. He strolled down the hall, opened a door, and strutted right in. The door slammed behind him. Marsh just shook his head and went downstairs.

All of the men's packs and weapons remained piled up and stacked respectively near the doors. A few fatigued attendants were picking up plates still full of half-finished meals. Here and there, between the tables, were puddles of spilled liquor on the floorboards. It didn't matter much; the floorboards were a facade, covering the rockcrete foundation. Heavy explosives would be needed to punch through to the bunker beneath the tavern.

He took a plate from the hands of one of the attendants that still had a few good slices of grox meat on it. This he took back to the end of the bar, taking his seat from before. Eschewing a fork or knife, he tore bits from the slabs and ate them piecemeal. When he noticed an empty glass in front of it, he hailed the bartender and pointed down into the glass.

A few moments later, he had a full cup of Amasec. Despite having drank several cups just a solar hour earlier, the effects were very mild. Fine liquors were reserved for the officer corps and the varieties available to the enlisted men were not very strong. Rank-and-file Guardsmen had to drink a great quantity if he wished for intoxication.

Marsh Silas sipped it gingerly every so often as he ate the Grox meat. It was good, despite being cold.

He looked at Barlocke's empty stool on his right. For a long time, he stared at it. It was impossible not to recall the Inquisitor's words, like malignant murmurs of a ghost's voice in one's ears.

It all came down to trust. The Ordo Hereticus snuffed out even the slightest sign of heresy or treason. Anyone who didn't prove to maintain a locked mind was suspect. Why would he encourage him to turn the key and open it? Why? Why, why, why? As soon as he did, would Barlocke attack his mind and fill it with some sort of taint? The possibility was terrifying.

He was a psyker after all and it seemed to matter so little to him. The sanctioned psykers Marsh fought alongside before were decripd, bent over, shambling little beings. They wore odd clothes, bore strange staves, and were prone to maniacal outbursts. In his experience, none stayed for long. They either died in the fray of combat, were destroyed by the very power they attempted to manifest, or they lost their minds and a Commissar swiftly shot them through the head.

Part of those teachings he adhered to warned of the psyker's power and the potential for corruption. Sanctioned or otherwise, all were to be scrutinized, despised, and kept at a distance.

Whether he liked it or not, Barlocke had taken an interest. What's more, despite that evening, Marsh could not bring himself to totally despise him. The Inquisitor was charismatic, humorful, intelligent, faithful, and moral. He saved the civilians and went after the children too. Through two heavy battles, he kept Bloody Platoon alive as well.

Hyram's Action, as the men called it, saw several Guardsmen wounded. None were killed. At first, he was happy to call it the Emperor's protection. Now he wondered if Barlocke's power played a part in their continued survival. If that was how he used his power, perhaps he was more trustworthy than he thought. Maybe he actually cared about them. At the very least, he was keeping the promise he made to Marsh Silas those days ago.

Even if he hailed from the Ordo all dreaded, he was still an agent of the Holy Inquisition. Next to the Adeptus Ministorum, none understood the Emperor's word more than they. If he said the Emperor wished him to learn, then why should he refuse? Resistance would see him disobeying his glorious overlord's demands. That would make him disloyal and that was something he feared just as much death.

Loyalty. Faithfulness. Sacrifice. Maybe some other citizens only paid lip service to the Emperor and those words were convenient tools to pass through the solar day without paying what they owe to the Imperium through toil. If what Barlocke offered was a way to be ever more faithful to the God-Emperor, then it was his duty to follow that pay. After all, the Imperial Creed dictated all men and women had a place under their Emperor. Perhaps this was his, to become a greater Guardsmen so he could better serve. Yet, the Creed also demanded that he follow the tenants and his superiors without question. If he had questions, then he failed. Barlocke was a superior, but he was not the only one nor was he the first.

He was not sure how long he lingered at the bar. Time seemed to drag by. But it was comfortable inside the tavern. It was very warm and the last of the ovens in the back were being shut off. Cooked meat and stewed vegetables pleasantly permeated the air. Well-fed and with alcohol swilling in his belly, Marsh felt tired. It was not the usual exhaustion Guardsmen felt after a day of marching, drilling, hard work, and fighting. That left a man so utterly drained he was liable to instantly fall asleep the moment he sat down. Instead, it was a pleasant absence of energy when one didn't require any. Such a feeling brought a smile to a Guardsman's face and a sigh to his lips. No barking officers and wary Commissars; it was a true respite. Were it not for his troubled mind, Marsh could have fallen asleep on the bar top. But that was too unseemly for a platoon sergeant he thought.

Instead, he finished his drink, slid the dishes away, and decided to go for a walk. A few solar hours remained before the curfew fell. There was time.

Leaving some throne gelt on the bar top, he donned his winter coat, buttoned it, and headed out. Outside, the snow was still falling unabated. Wind carried the flakes around, spiraling, twisting, dancing until falling upon the ground.

Putting on his gloves and his low-peaked noncommissioned officer cap, he began walking down the road opposite Barlocke's path.

His boots crunched in the snow coating the sidewalk. Utility servitors trundled up and down the streets, clearing them of snow with small plows. Interior Guardsmen manned their posts, keeping a strict vigil on the street and the sky. Some stamped their feet. Others rubbed their gloved hands together. A few brought lho-sticks to their lips and exhaled gray clouds of smoke which were swept away in the breeze. At the keystones of these street-by-street defenses were tanks or armored personnel carriers. Their engines were rumbling and hot, so many Guardsmen could be found gathering around them for warmth. Conversation passed quietly between them, remarking on the weather or talking about distant battles. Frequently, a squad would lock hands and form a ring, or all sink to their knees, and utter a group prayer. Occasionally, he passed damage from a past assault; a destroyed building, the hull of a burned out Leman Russ main battle tank, or a collapsed roadway. Servitors of various utility patterns, led by Enginseers, cleared the wreckage of war.

When he and Bloody Platoon marched after the entry process, he was happy to be within Kasr Sonnen. While it certainly was not a time to relax, as no one could be totally off their guard on a Fortress World, there was less rigor than an Militarum camp. It was not that he disliked the rigidity of camp life, he was just thankful the men could have a little time to themselves.

Walking along with a troubled mind, he wished he was back in camp. There was always something to do; a trench needed to be fortified, the officers wanted a regimental review, or there were some enemies to slaughter for the glory of the Imperium. At least his mind would not be so muddied and distracted. Out there, a Guardsman's duty was simple. Obey orders, maintain equipment, keep the men alive, and leave no enemy standing. Simple, plain, clear.

Marsh Silas smiled to himself. It almost made service in the Astra Militarum sound so very easy. No capacity which required one to risk their neck was straightforward. Although he never told anyone, as ready as he was to lay down his life, he would rather find a way not to. What use was a loyal servant if he was dead?

Casually, he looked to his left. A giant poster portrayed a charging Guardsman and declared that his faith, duty, and courage would bring the Imperium to victory. How he wished to be that devoted, fixated soldier once more.

Out of the darkness of Kasr Sonnen loomed one of the fortress-city's great cathedrals. For such a beautiful place of worship, it was formidable. It was characterized by high, reinforced rockcrete walls plated with gold-tinted armor plating. The forward section was a long rectangle with high bracing columns along its exterior walls. At the top of each column was an eagle bowing its head. The building's face bore an immense, ornate carving of the two-headed Imperial Aquila. A dot defined the forward head's open eye to the future, while the rear head remained closed to the past. Underneath was a circular stained-glass window, almost in the center.

Connected to the rear of the base section of the cathedral was a vast cylindrical tower. This too was defined by columns along its wall, though they lacked the eagle figurine at their heads. Instead of a great stained-glass dome at the tower's top, it was just a flat roof. Even the front section was flat, rather than bearing elegant spires and angled buttresses. Both roofs instead bore great fortifications; automated as well as manned anti-air turrets scanned the skyline. Heavy guns and rocket launchers also populated the rooftop of the cathedral.

It was the Cadian touch. Even if the cardinals, deacons, and priests disapproved of the Emperor's houses of worship being converted to military fortifications, they knew it was necessary. Any building in a Kasr had to be used in the defense of a Chaos invasion, from cathedrals and spires to common and noble households.

He didn't know he would end up in front of the great cathedral. Even under the cloak of night and the dim lights from the lamps and spotlights, it looked absolutely beautiful. A Kasr just wasn't complete without one: no Imperial world was.

Stopping at the bottom of the smooth rockcrete steps and gazing up at the Aquila, he saluted it. Instead of dropping his hand, he kept it at his brow and continued to salute. Even as his arm grew tired, he refused to lower it.

For a long while, he stood, saluting, observing the face of the cathedral. Etched in the space around the stained-glass window and Aquila were scenes depicting holy men, the destruction of nonbelievers, the Emperor's grace, and the Emperor himself. He was a grand figure, holding his sword high above his head and calling upon his subjects to fight on.

The images filled Marsh Silas's heart with love for the Emperor and the Imperium; they gave great energy to his soul. He wanted to storm through the Kasr gates, find the nearest Chaos enclave on the planet, and slay them. With lasgun, with bayonet and trench knife, with grenades, with his own two bare hands, he would kill them all. For Emperor and Imperium, he would kill them all and drive the survivors back into the Eye of Terror.

"What are you doing down there, young man?" called a gruff, raspy voice.

At the top of the steps was a Confessor, wearing a long black robe, a tall white hat with a skull on the front, and thick collar of white with red trimmings. Many scrolls and pages of parchment hung from his robe. In his hand was a long, gray staff with a torch at the very top, casting a flickering orange bloom around him.

"Paying my respects, Confessor," Marsh Silas responded.

"Come up here," he commanded in a blunt tone.

Marsh Silas lowered his arm and marched up the steps. By the time he reached the top, he was almost winded. He found the Confessor was an older man with a gaunt face and a long black beard with gray streaks.

He made the sign of the Aquila and bowed his head respectfully. The Confessor made the same sign. Afterwards, he eyed Marsh Silas up and down, stroking his beard. "If you wish to pray, go inside. It's far warmer, child."

"Many thanks, Confessor," Marsh Silas bowed his head again and walked inside.

Inside, a row of square columns lined either side of the protracted, carpeted aisle leading to the Emperor's shine. On each face of the column was a golden eagle, serving as a buttress against the ceiling. The entire ceiling was painted, showing scenes of the Emperor, Holy Terra, and the Saints. A golden statue of the Emperor, taller than any man, overlooked the many rows of pews. Behind the holy idol was a grandiose wooden pulpit with golden trimmings. The pulpit was tall and narrow, with four moderate beams holding up a roof carved into the shape of the Imperial Aquila. This too was trimmed with golden linings. The beams and closed railings of the pulpit were carved with holy scenes, Aquilas, and Saints.

Far behind it, the great tower was filled with the iconography of the Imperium. Painted murals depicted great battles from Cadia's past, the many heroes and heroines of those ages, or the mighty Adeptus Astartes descending from the sky in their drop pods. Images of the Aquila, the many icons of the Imperial branches, and the guiding, protective hand of the Emperor were among the myriad troops of the Imperium.

Torches hung on the columns and made the stained glass windows glow in a variety of muted colors. Suspended in between the columns were black chains; linked to these chains were ornate basins filled with fire.

Save for a few individuals sitting in different rows and a group of holy men chanting in a choir box perpendicular to the pulpit, it was devoid of much life.

Marsh Silas was glad for that. In his youth he was packed shoulder to shoulder in shrines, chapels, and cathedrals such as these when his mother took him to prayer. With hundreds, even thousands of voices, hymns became almost unintelligible and reciting tenants from the Imperial Creed was incoherent.

The Confessor walked with Marsh Silas down the main aisle.

"It is good for young men such as yourself to pay the God-Emperor respect."

"My mind is troubled also, Confessor," Marsh admitted. "I feel as though I have not been the most able of His servants."

He chose randomly, taking a seat at the end of a pew towards the center of the cathedral. Before he did, he knelt beside the pew and made the sign of the Aquila. The Confessor sat beside him.

"Tell me, child, is it because you doubt the Emperor's word?"

"No, Confessor, not in the slightest," Marsh Silas said, gazing at the statue of his overlord. "The Creed is the absolute truth and I have faith in it. It is in myself, I doubt."

"Have you sinned?"

Marsh Silas told him of their latest endeavours against the heretics. Fending off the ambush, dispatching the corrupted priest, rescuing the civilians and the convoy, the retrieval and subsequent execution of the tainted children. Not one man bore corruption and all orders were followed to the letter. Their actions met approval both with regimental command and the Inquisitor they were seconded too.

The Confessor listened with great interest and grunted approvingly. "I see no sin."

"I feel as though my actions are not enough."

"Our actions are _never _enough." At this, the Confessor held up his finger and waved it a little. "We must spend our lives, however long or short, in constant service. In life, even our greatest feats shall not suffice. When we the faithful die, only then have we fulfilled the God-Emperor's mandate. For you see, service and sacrifice are intertwined."

He then rested his hand on Marsh's shoulder. "You are pious. You are hard on yourself. That is good; it means you will push yourself to serve the Emperor. The Imperium lives on because of men such as you."

Marsh Silas wanted to tell him what Barlocke spoke of. He was unsure how to. The more he reflected on his words, the more he began to think he would never be able to tell anyone.

"I jus'..." Marsh shook his head. "...can I still be a loyal, able, faithful subject if I stay the same?"

The Confessor furrowed his brow for a time. Marsh was worried he spoke wrongly and hoped his face did not betray his mounting concern. Then the Confessor's face softened, he considered, and surprisingly, he smiled.

"If you carry out what your duty requires of you, follow the Imperial Creed's tenants, abhor the heretic, xeno, and mutant, and defy all that which refutes our faith, it matters not. Do not stray from the light, child." He reached over and patted him on the knee. "And I think twenty Pax Imperiums shall make up for such a foolish question."

Marsh Silas smiled a little. He thanked the Confessor, who joined the other chanting men.

Taking out his prayer beads, he clasped them between his hands, and settled them on the backrest of the pew in front of him. Then, he laid his head down upon his hands. Under his breath, he whispered, 'Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium, Pax Imperium...'

When he finished, he kissed the prayer beads and placed them back into the pouch on his belt. Then he sat back, closing his eyes and just enjoying the soft melodies of the choir. He found himself slouching in his seat and the back of his head rested on the back of the pew. His eyelids fluttered, and began to close.

"Has your soul been soothed?"

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He knew that voice all too well, now. Inhaling calmly, he sat up.

"You can't tell?" he asked Barlocke before looking over his shoulder. The Inquisitor was sitting back in the pew behind him, one arm stretched across the top and his legs crossed. His smile was almost smug.

"Out of respect, I dare not see into your mind."

"Why do you restrain yourself so?"

"Because if I delved into the minds of every single individual I met, what use would I have for conversation?" He waved his hand dismissively. "It's bad enough when I have to use my powers against heretics. I wish not to discuss their minds; you would find it incomprehensible all the same. Often, that is better."

Marsh Silas didn't respond. He heard Barlocke leaned forward a little. "I apologize if what I said earlier disturbed you. The timing was not right."

"Methinks there would never be a good time for somethin' o' that nature," Marsh replied flatly. He turned more. "I oughtn't o' raised my voice."

Barlocke leaned forward, folding his hands on top of the other, resting them on the backrest beside Marsh Silas's shoulder.

"Did you lay with a woman?"

"Yes, but I didn't go through with it entirely. I _couldn't _go through with it," Marsh Silas told him. Barlocke smiled a little, although not in a mocking way. The Guardsman shook his head. "I never thought about it before. That I may have children out there who I will never know. They'll never know me. Not once did I consider what it would be like to hold my own child, like my own father and mother with me."

He thought for a moment. "I suppose that's why Miss Asiah don't want to give up on her boy."

"He was all she had," Barlocke said, shaking his head. "The clothes on her back, her home, her newfound employment; the Imperium has given her everything. But not that little boy. He was her's, and she loved him. Imagine losing the one you loved most."

Marsh Silas did not want to. Barlocke continued, "Life in the Imperium is harsh and unforgiving. I wish it was different, so no little babes need to be taken away. Even your existence I find sorrowful."

"But I am proud to serve," Marsh Silas insisted, "I'm thankful to the Emperor for being born a Cadian."

"Yet you must ever stand against the Ruinous tide. Before you were born, you were destined to be a Guardsman. You played no part in that decision. Should we not all be able to make our own decisions?"

"Some who stray from the light by their own decisions become traitorous heretics," Marsh Silas scoffed. Barlocke chuckled.

"Yes, that's very true. If we are to see the Imperium grow to glory, we must defeat our enemies."

"The Imperium stands glorious already."

"Is any empire great when it conscripts its children before they are even born?" Barlocke countered. "Yes, the Imperium is magnificent. But it's not perfect. We must work, not just fight, to ensure it reaches perfection. Failing that, to improve it beyond what it is now. That's what I want."

Barlocke gazed ahead then, locking eyes with the golden head of the Emperor's statue. For a long while, he stared at the figure with a mournful expression. "Silvanus, from planet to planet there is corruption, stagnation, poverty, oppression, and far, far worse. If the Emperor strode among us now, he would be ashamed, I'm sure of it. He would undo such wrongs. As an Inquisitor, I shall do so in his stead." Barocke took Marsh by the shoulder and leaned in close. "The Imperium must change for the better. So _we _must change for the better, for its the people who maketh the Imperium. The Confessor is right about that, at least."

His dark eyes peered into Marsh Silas, so cutting and resolute he thought for a moment his mind would crumble under the Inquisitor's power. "One day, crying babes need not be ripped from their mother's hands."

Marsh Silas felt something familiar. A stirring feeling, something that not only called on his mind and heart, but his very soul. Such passions rose when he marched by the regiment in review, when he saw the standard waving grandly in the thick of battle, and when he was among thousands of fellow Guardsmen. It was more than pride; it was zealotry. Those emotions drove him to serve, fight, and suffer for the Emperor and the Imperium.

Here, with this Inquisitor, he felt it once more.

Barlocke took notice and clapped him on the shoulder a few times. "We shall speak of it more, alas, another time. I promised you relaxation and all I have caused you is turmoil. Please allow me to make this evening a bit more enjoyable."

There was a word he didn't hear too often and it worried Marsh Silas. Immediately, the wave of sentimentality passed him. He shrunk in the pew and broke his violet eyes away from Barlocke's.

"We've always been warned to avoid excess. They be sayin' it all the time. We have to keep ready for any incursion."

This is he said almost shyly, like a hesitant child. Barlocke laughed, stood, and took him by the arm.

"Come, my friend, come! I'll make sure nothing happens."

Arm and arm, they left the stoic cathedral.

* * *

**Word Count:** 6,086


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

The duo retraced Marsh Silas's steps back to the quarter they were in before. Instead, they ended up in front of the officer's hall. Light poured from the windows and muffled dancing music rang within.

As they approached, Barlocke let go of his arm, turned, and pressed his gloved index finger to his lips. Marsh looked around. Upon seeing on either side of the interlocking, barricaded road, he held out his arms and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.

He found it curious that, once again, the security details for this section were absent. Was it a shift change? If so, it was taking far too long.

Barlocke's insistent, exasperated waving broke him from his thoughts. The Inquisitor was stacked up next to the window to the left of the reinforced double doors. Marsh came up to him, hugging the wall as if we were about to breach through the window. It wouldn't have been the first time he did such a thing.

Jerking with his thumb, Barlocke motioned through it. Marsh crept closer and edged to the frame. Poking his nose across it, he peered inside.

The floor was tiled black and white in a checkered pattern. There were many marble busts of Saints and war heroes against the walls. Relic weapons were mounted on the walls; bolt pistols and power swords were featured the most. A giant, golden chandelier hung in the very center. The light its candles cast was absolutely brilliant. One could have mistaken them for electronic lights instead of flames.

Across from the doorway was a marble staircase. The first flight was short and led to a landing. Two more flights of stairs on the left and right of the landing extended up to the second floor extended balcony that lined both walls all the way to the hall's face. Marble posts went all the way up to the ceiling, covering the balconies. White lattice topped with a gold-trimmed ebony railing connected the marble posts. Tied to the base of each of the posts were long olive-drab banners depicting the skulls of the Astra Militarum and the Imperial Aquila.

On the ground floor, to the left of the staircase, was a platform. An elegantly dressed band played lively dance music with a variety of instruments. To the right of the flight was an entryway. Occasionally, this opened up and servants brought out silver platters to two long tables on the left and side walls. Both were covered with stark whtie tablecloths and dozens of platters were set on each. Colorful fruits and vegetables he never saw before filled bowls. Succulent exoctic meats, fresh from the ovens, sizzled on the plates. Loaves of crumble bread were sliced and slathered with creamy butter. There were pastries and cakes coated with frosting at the end of each table. And everywhere, there were bowls and bottles of wine. Crystalline glasses lined the tables next to them. Attendants in elegant black suits or dresses stood by the tables like Guardsmen. There were no servitors.

A mixture of nobles and officers filled the hall. Nobles tended to incorporate camouflage patterns into their clothing. Many of the lordly men wore evening jackets and urban combat fatigues. Ladies who accompanied them wore tight corsets, flouncy hooped skirts, and bustles lined with ribbons. However, they were in the minority. Many of the young noblewomen wore dresses with colors sported by various regiments. A few wore plain green and tan dresses, others bearing red, gray, and lush green. One clique among them forewent dresses altogether and wore tunics and trousers.

The officers wore their dress uniforms and their tunics were adorned with ribbon racks. These were as colorful as the red, green, and yellow fruit lining the tables. All were clean shaven and bore finely trimmed haircuts. Many had surgically reconstructed faces, bionic implants, or very terrible scars. Only a few lacked such marks of war. These were very young men and women who were in an unbloodied Youth Corps or possessed a Kasr posting. An even smaller, pampered looking bunch kept away from the eager recruits and the disfigured veterans.

From the way they nervously sipped their wine and averted the gazes of the older soldiers, it was obvious to Marsh Silas their officer commissions were purchased and not earned.

Barlocke leaned over Marsh so that his chin nearly rested on his head. He pointed at the table on the right.

"See those tall bottles of brandy at the head?" Barlocke asked.

It took Marsh Silas a few moments, but he eventually spotted. The bottles were dark yellow and remained corked. The pair withdrew and Barlocke put both hands on his shoulders. "That's _Raenka_. It's some of the most delicious brandy in the Imperium. It comes from Feudal Worlds, would you believe it?"

Marsh Silas didn't really know why that made the brandy so special, so he just smiled and nodded. The Inquisitor turned around, glanced through the window again, and grinned eagerly. "Let's go."

"Surely, we're not goin' in there!" Marsh Silas hissed. "I'll get a bolt shell through the head!"

"Oh no you won't!" Barlocke insisted.

"If not, it'll be a flogging!"

"What? That's...no, no, that's just silly."

Marsh Silas frowned. Barlocke chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

In a cavalier fashion, Barlocke marched to the double doors. Inhaling sharply, he grabbed the handles and shoved the doors open. All Marsh Silas did was utter a quick prayer for the Emperor's protection as he began to follow.

Barlocke strolled in several paces. Marsh was right behind him.

"Emperor protect me..." he murmured.

The band stopped playing. The conversation and laughter ceased. All turned and faced him. Servants bringing fresh food out to the tables immediately stopped. Many of the party goers' expressions became pensive. Others looked outright terrified and failed to conceal it.

Clearing his throat, Barlocke smiled amiably.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Cadia. I am Inquisitor Barlocke, of the Holy Inquisition. I have received information there is a possibility of a heretic among your number."

There was a series of gasps and hushed whispers. Barlocke raised both hands. "Now, now, there is no need for excitement. I sincerely doubt any of Cadia's finest would turn away from the Emperor's light. Yet, it is my duty to confirm this information. I will conduct a brief investigation and be on my way, and let you lords and soldiers enjoy your respite."

Barlocke ordered everyone to assemble directly in front of him. Without hesitation, the entire crowd obeyed. From colonels to junior officers, lords to servants, they gathered. It took mere moments. Marsh Silas watched in awe.

But a major from the 808th Artillery Regiment noticed him and frowned.

"Forgive me, Inquisitor," said the major, pointing at Marsh Silas. "Enlisted men are not permitted to enter such an establishment."

Barlocke placed an arm around Marsh Silas's shoulder and ushered him forward.

"Enlisted he may be, sir, but this man has been seconded to my command. My authority is the only authority he obeys. He shall stay."

The major bit his tongue. Once everyone was in front of him, Barlocke commanded them to show their identification. After checking they were in order, he asked each individual to empty their pockets for any items deemed heretical by the Holy Inquisition.

One by one, they stepped forward with their paperwork. Barlocke made a great show of inspecting them. He would tilt his head back, look down his nose, squint, and flip each page very slowly.

Marsh Silas was beside him, doing his best to appear as if he truly belonged in an Inquisitior's retinue. Were he not so busy trying to put on a menacing face, he would have found the entire affair humorous.

_Now's your chance. No one's looking. Sneak around them and take two of the bottles of Raenka. _

Marsh Silas looked around quickly. The sensation was eerie and unsettling. It was like a whisper, yet it was within his own mind. Not even his own conscious thoughts possessed that paradoxical nature of weight and buoyancy. Like the steady, gentle beating of a drum, the words bounced and drifted within his skull. Was it the Eye of Terror? Had it finally penetrated his mind? He would resist. The Emperor was the one true God. He would serve none other than He and would die before deserting him!

_Calm down. It's me._

Marsh Silas blinked and looked up at the Inquisitor.

"Barlocke?" he asked out loud. He did not meet Marsh Silas's gaze, continuing to speak with the gentleman in front of him.

_Of course! Quit gawking at me and swipe the Raenka! _

Mustering his courage, and feeling rather foolish since he charged many a heretic line before, he slipped around the crowd. He hurried over to the bottles, opened his jacket, snatched two by the neck, and stuffed them into the inner pocket. Quickly, he closed his coat and turned around.

_Two more, take two more._

Marsh shivered.

"Barlocke, I think my blessings are about to run out," he whispered.

_Two more, man! _

Mumbling another prayer, Marsh grabbed two more and slipped them into the other inner pocket of his coat. Carrying the bottles in his coat was awkward; all four were full, heavy, and cold.

Once he was back at Barlocke's side, he adopted a serious expression for the remainder of the inspection. Over time, the Inquisitor's demeanor grew quite pleasant. He traded jokes and swapped stories with some of the veteran officers. With the ladies, he was quite civil; he kissed their hands, complimented their appearances, and every so often made a flirtatious comment. Nearly all of the young, unmarried women he spoke with turned away, smiling and blushing.

Marsh Silas was impressed as he was jealous of such abilities.

Eventually, he was satisfied the hall was clear of heretics.

"The Holy Inquisition and the Ordo Hereticus values your cooperation. Truly, it is the sign of both the loyal and faithful. Be ever vigilant for the heretic, mutant, and xeno. Stand strong against our myriad foes and the Imperium will flourish!" His impromptu speech was punctuated by the crowd's applause. Taking off his hat and delivering a sweeping bow, he took Marsh by the arm and they left.

They walked down the street at a brisk pace. The sentries were returning to their posts, but stopped to salute the Inquisitor as he passed. Eventually, they stopped just outside the quarter at an intersection. Stepping out of sight of the street they were on before, Barlocke clapped him on the shoulder. "Well done!" he congratulated.

Marsh stared at him. Barlocke blinked. "What?"

"You was in my head."

"I was just speaking to you. I was not prying. Even if I was, you wouldn't have known."

"That don't make me feel much better," Marsh complained. "Is my head that easy to break into? I mus' be pretty weak-willed, Emperor forgive me."

"Only a rare few possess the constitution to resist a psyker's powers, young sergeant," Barlocke told him. "There is no shame."

It did little to reassure Marsh Silas. He could still hear Barlocke's voice echoing in his mind. The words were not so much like an echo, but more of an occasional cold breeze coming from within. A shiver ran through him.

"Don't seem right to be takin' their liquor. Couldn't you have jus' asked fer it? You're an Inquisitor after all," he said, trying to take his mind off it.

Barlocke waved him off.

"That wouldn't have been as much fun," he asserted.

"Didn't realize fun was something you Inquisitorial types knew anythin' about."

"Just because it's one of the few words you _can _spell doesn't mean you know what it means."

"Shut up."

Marsh Silas looked around. A convoy was rolling through the intersection. Leman Russ main battle tanks, Chimeras, and Hellhounds rumbled by. Acting as security details were assault bike squads. The Guardsmen aboard their motorcycles moved by at a similar pace, scrutinizing the area around them. Each one had a laspistol on their hip and a lasgun slung across their backs. Headlamps lit up the darkened, snow-covered junction.

Sighing, he shifted the bottles inside the deep inner pocket. "Why'd we come here? Let us back to the tavern, tis' far warmer."

"But it's dull! Let us find somewhere with a view."

"Surely, you saw the very high walls surrounding this Kasr, Inquisitor," Marsh replied dryly. "The journey to the walls will take some time as well; we're within the inner part of Sonnen."

Barlocke rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then smiled. Wordlessly, he marched straight over to the convoy. He waved down one of the motorcyclists, nearly stepping into the road doing so. The nearest motorcyclist pumped the brakes and came to a stop right beside them. He turned the big headlamp off; underneath it was a silver, winged skull. Quickly, he stood up as straight as he could and saluted.

"Yes, Inquisitor!?" He yelled over the engine.

"I need your motorcycle, by order of the Holy Inquisition," Barlocke said loudly. The motorcyclist stared at him, then at Marsh Silas, and then back at the Inquisitor. Barlocke towered over him and narrowed his eyes. "Dismount, Guardsman."

Without further hesitation, the motorcyclist hopped off the bike and stepped aside. In turn, Barlocke took the seat. After briefly checking the gauges, he turned to Marsh Silas. "What are you doing, man, get on!"

Awkwardly, the staff sergeant mounted the motorcycle, keeping one arm on his coat to balance the bottles, and reluctantly putting his other arm around the Inquisitor.

Barlocke grinned over his shoulder. "Have you ever ridden one before?"

"Never," was Marsh's answer. Barlocke laughed.

"Then hold on," he said, then tipped his hat to the motorcyclist, 'thank you, young man!"

The motorcyclist saluted. Barlocke revved the engine and then sped forward. Barlocke weaved nimbly through the convoy, in front and around tanks and armored personnel carriers. Guardsmen on foot darted to the side as the Inquisitor braked hard, left and right, left and right, left and right, down the interlocking roadway. Full speed could not be achieved on the roads of a Kasr, but Barlocke was doing his best to push it. Each time they came careening towards one of the sharp streelocks, Barlocke deftly braked, turned, and angled the bike around the corner.

Marsh snatched his cap just before it flew off. He was holding on tightly and clenching his teeth, just waiting for a crash. All that he could think about was if the motorcycle's Machine Spirit was as terrified as he was.

Officers called on them to slow down and waved their lamp packs. But as soon as they saw it was an Inquisitor, they dropped their lamps and saluted. Even at their terrifying speed, Marsh Silas could see their reddened, shocked faces as they passed by.

Over the roaring engine, clattering frame, and blasting wind, Barlocke laughed boisterously. Daring to look up, Marsh raised himself up and looked over the Inquisitor's shoulder. They were bucketing along, past all persons and machines. The great fortress-city was a dark blur and the snow pelted his cheeks.

As scared as he was for breaking the laws of the city, as scared as he was of being punished, and as scared as he was of losing his life on this devilish ride, Marsh started to feel elated. Never before had he done something so carefree; his adrenaline was pumping and his heart was pounding. The faster they went, the more he began to enjoy himself despite being afraid. Part of him wanted to pull out one of the brandy bottles, crack it open, and start drinking, or stand as high as he could and whoop for joy.

_Go on and do it, Silvanus! You'll regret it if you don't! _

Barlocke's voice filtered through him. It came like a cold breath of air, yet he found it more agreeable this time.

Marsh Silas needed no further prompting. He rose high in the seat, balancing one hand on Barlocke's left shoulder. Raising his fist into the air, he hollered as loud as he could.

"Bloody Platoon!" he screamed madly. Barlocke laughed and joined him. "Bloody Platoon!" they yelled together. "Hail to the Emperor! Long live the Imperium of Man!"

"Silvanus and Barlocke!" the latter shouted.

"Barlocke and Silvanus!" Marsh called back.

###

The ride eventually came to an end when they pulled up to a heavily defended compound located on the eastern wall. It was only a few hundred meters up from the gate they passed through earlier that evening.

A duty officer approached, checked, and registered their vehicle. Barlocke said that he wanted to go up to the ramparts for watch duty. The officer, who was very surprised, wasted little time escorting them to the nearest elevator. A squad of Guardsmen were waiting for the lift to arrive. When they saw Barlocke and Marsh Silas approaching, they straightened up right away.

It wasn't long before it arrived. They crowded inside, the bell rang, and the lift began to ascend. The elevator moved swiftly up the high wall. Barlocke made conversation with the Guardsmen, who nervously laughed at the few jokes he made.

Their reactions were unsure and cautious. Marsh Silas smiled. It was like looking at past versions of himself and his comrades when they first sat down with him.

They passed many levels within the wall. Each time they passed one, Marsh Silas caught a glimpse of the inner workings. One of the lower levels was a complex of automated Tarantula turrets. The level above was a manned emplacement position, rife with heavy bolters, autocannons, lascannons, and missile launchers. On one level, servitors were moving heavy ammunition wagons on tracks, lifts, and vertical conveyor belts. The next level was a battery of Earthshaker Cannons; the crews were collecting the shells being sent up the conveyor belt. Occasionally, they would pass a barracks level filled with Guardsmen. So the flooring went; more batteries, more ammunition lockers, more emplacements, and more barracks.

Grease, oil, and the acrid smell of machinery permeated throughout the elevator shaft. It was very hot. Various sounds flowed throughout the wall; grinding gears, clanking wheels, straining pulleys, rattling belts, humming engines, hissing steam, cranking winches, banging hammers, and chattering rivet guns. Intermixed with such a cacophony were the yelling voices of Guardsmen, traveling throughout the walls like the ghostly wails.

When they reached the very top, the gate opened and the group walked onto the snow-covered ramparts. To walk from the cramped, humid environment of the elevator to the brisk cold made all shiver, save Barlocke. After a cordial goodbye, the group of Guardsmen jovially marched northward along the wall. Marsh Silas followed Barlocke down the opposite direction.

The pair drifted past more emplacements; Earthshaker Cannons, Battlecannon emplacements, Hydra flak guns, heavy mortars, Tarantula Sentry Gun, and an assortment of automated turrets. Heavy weapon crews and specialists occupied bunkers, spires, and pillboxes.

Taking a moment to look over the edge, Marsh Silas saw the wall below lined with firepower. Barrels ranging from cannons to heavy bolters poked out of their positions. Thousands of lasguns stuck out of firing ports. Many other heavy fortifications characterized the wall face. Below was the vast network of trenches, bunkers, weapon bits, bunkers, and emplacements.

"You aren't afraid of heights, are you?" Barlocke asked over his shoulder. Snapped from his observations, Marsh Silas continued following him.

"I find heights agreeable. Comes with fightin'; you always want ta' be higher than your enemies."

"We always want to be higher," was all Barlocke said.

Eventually, they came to a jaunt-out from the wide ramparts. It was a simple lookout post, not a defensive post. The area was only wide enough for perhaps four or five men to stand in. Railings on both sides topped armor plating barriers. While the railing wrapped around the entire jaunt-out, the front lacked an armored plate. Instead, there were sandbags.

Barlocke decided to hunker down in this spot. With a contented sigh, he sat down on the left side of the jaunt-out, his back against the plate. He took off his hat and set it on his left. Marsh joined him and took off his own cap. As soon as he sat down, he unbuttoned his coat and pulled out the bottles of Raenka. Barlocke took one and popped the cork; he helped Marsh Silas with his.

Marsh was about to take a long drink when Barlocke grabbed his wrist.

"No, no, no, young Silvanus. Smell it first."

"Why?" Marsh Silas asked after a moment.

"Because this is a prized brandy!" Barlocke insisted incredulously. "Savor it."

"Can't I just drink it?"

"Humor me."

"I can sing the _Kasr Flower _again, that's pretty funny."

"Just smell the damnable brandy, it'll take all but two seconds."

Marsh Silas rolled his eyes, held the mouth of the bottle to his nose, and inhaled.

"Sure, smells pretty good."

"No, what does it smell like?"

"How should I know? What kinda fool goes about sniffing liquor, anyways?"

Barlocke just shook his head. They clinked their bottles together, toasted the God-Emperor, and drank up.

The flavor was unlike anything Marsh Silas ever tasted before. It was rich without being overbearing, sweet without curdling the gut. As cold as it was, by the time it reached his belly he felt warmer. Defying his already high expectations, it was stronger than the Amasec he was drinking earlier. After each sip, it was impossible not to release a satisfied sigh.

For a while, the two sat side by side, drinking slowly to savor the flavor.

"I know much of what I've said to you tonight seems like madness," Barlocke said suddenly. "Sometimes, it feels like that. My duty would be easier if I could just take the slightest shred of evidence and purge the accused. I can't pass death off that easily, though. I take the harder route, Silvanus, but that is the most righteous."

He motioned outwards to the barrens surrounding Kasr Sonnen. "I could do nothing and let the Imperium continue onwards, unchanged. Let it reside in its current grandeur. But by the Golden Throne, I want to see it become more illustrious than it is _right now_. I want life to be equal and prosperous for all."

"And that can be done by growin', like you said earlier?"

"Yes! Change comes from within, not without. I've seen so much corruption, so many abuses of power. It must change."

Marsh Silas thought for a moment.

"This brandy here is real tasty," he said, "and that bike ride, that was good fun. But it's not like we was _allowed _to do any o' that. You just pulled status on'em. Ain't that one of them abuses of power?"

Barlocke smirked and took a slug of his Raenka. As he gulped, he poked Marsh Silas in the chest.

"You're a bit smarter than you let on, Silvanus. Yes, but it was insignificant. Four bottles of brandy and a motorcycle ride? We didn't hurt anyone."

Marsh Silas thought about the motorcyclist Guardsmen reporting to his superior officer why his bike was missing. If they didn't believe him, they would probably shoot him for losing a piece of Astra Militarum equipment.

Barlocke immediately frowned. "I'm certain that _didn't _happen. If you think that qualifies for bureaucratic corruption, you're more aligned with my goals than I am. But I've been far over the Imperium, Silvanus, far over. I've seen planetary defense forces used like private armies by governors. Regiments skulking from town to town, village to village, propagating fake tax collections to line their pockets, all under the banner of the Astra Militarum. Governors hoarding wealth, relics, artifacts, and weapons. Above all that, this bureaucratic system above and below your station is rotten to the core. Do you think this is efficient? Think again, Marsh Silas."

Barlocke took a long drink, sighed, and shook his head. "Do you believe in destiny, Silvanus?"

"Of course. Them priests all say the God-Emperor has a plan for each and every one of us."

The Inquisitor smiled tenderly. His cheeks were blossoming red. It was clear the Raenka was getting to him. Marsh Silas was feeling a little wobbly himself; the Amasec was probably catching up with him as well.

Barlocke reached over and squeezed Marsh Silas's cheek.

"Definitely. But the God-Emperor is everywhere. Destiny, fate, plans; the Emperor can change it all. I've read many a tome, Marsh Silas, and studied much holy scripture. I think, I think, in the God-Emperor's plan for humanity, he wanted us to have a say in our own lives too. He wants us to obey His will, but He wants us to act. He doesn't want humanity to be animals needing' to be herded, not automatons that can't think for themselves."

"Your soul, your mind, your will," Marsh repeated, smiling a little. Barlocke biffed him in the shoulder.

"You remember! That's right. He gave us those attributes, so let's use them!"

"Not many of us are half so bright as you," Marsh replied.

"It was you who devised our attack on the heretic trafficking post. When Hyram broke down under the ambush, you took Bloody Platoon back in."

"That's jus' trainin' an' experience, not some strategist at work. Besides, corruption, oppression, illegal taxes, burr-ah-crazy—"

"_Bureaucracy_."

"—that's all above my pay grade _and _what little I know." Marsh took a swig of brandy then pointed at him while still holding the bottle's neck. "Shut up."

"I promised to help you," Barlocke reminded him, "I can teach you about that and more, more than the instructors taught you in your youth. I can show you so much more."

"Show me. Teach me. Help me. Pah," Marsh waved his hand. Barlocke grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I wish to help you _help yourself_. To get on the path to becoming the man you can be, to be more than just another faceless Guardsman in an unknown regiment."

"What if I don't want to be more than that? Can't I be of better service to the God-Emperor and the Imperium right here?"

Barlocke stared at him long and hard. As charming as he was, his dark eyes could strike fear in anyone. But Marsh Silas was too comfortable beside him, and steadily growing drunker, so it bothered him little. The most he could acknowledge was the sheer darkness of the man's eyes.

"The Confessor is right, we the faithful are what make this Imperium. But he was wrong in telling you that it matters not if we remain the same or change. If we are to serve, we must become better servants. If we better, so does the Imperium."

Marsh Silas didn't speak for a while. He finally drained his Raenka bottle. Barlocke finished his own. Without hesitation, they threw both bottles over the railing. The fall was so distant, they didn't hear the bottles smash on a bunker rooftop below. Immediately, the two extra bottles were uncorked and they began drinking.

After taking a long gulp, Marsh Silas knocked the side of his bottle against Barlocke's.

"Say I want you to help me, then? What should I do first?"

"Learning how to read would be a good start."

"If you make one more damned joke about that I'll throw you over this railing and take the Bolt shell."

"Twas no joke, Silvanus!" Barlocke laughed. Marsh made a feeble attempt to wrap his hands around the Inquisitor's throat but he was easily fended off. He simply fell sideways into Barlocke's lap and groaned. When he finally righted himself, chuckling, he leaned back into the corner of the jaunt-out.

"Besides that, what then?"

Barlocke thought for a little while.

"Hyram."

"What about that fool?"

"You've yet to make your decision?"

"Course' not! You've gone and got me rambling through Kasr Sonnen guilty and confused; I ain't had much _time _for that puzzle."

"Whether to help him or turn him over to Ghent is still up to you. Because I aim to help you, it does not mean I'll make your decisions for you. But before whatever decision you make, you should understand the man first. See what he has to say, know what he's going through."

"I doubt that shall make much of a difference," Marsh Silas muttered into his bottle before taking a sip.

"Young sergeant, you've barely taken any time to sit down and speak with your commanding officer. Don't you think you should afford him that much before making a life or death decision for him?"

"I don't owe him anythin'. I've got an entire platoon o' men to take care of. If getting him outta there, by any means, keeps them alive, then I'll do it."

"What if sending him away imperils your platoon even further? What if, one day, you need a man like Hyram in charge to protect you from a mistaken accusation of heresy, or if you need an officer who knows logistics and regimental politics to ensure you're well-equipped and well-fed. What if, sending him away or causing his death, earns you a replacement officer who takes great delight in punishing your men for menial infractions, or takes on near-suicidal assignments? What will become of Bloody Platoon then?"

Such images raced through Marsh Silas's alcohol-impaired mind. Diluted as his capacity was, he saw the images crisply. Good, stalwart men who never committed an infraction in their entire careers tied down and flogged. Each one bit down on a wooden peg as a Commissar or the fictional officer himself took a cat-of-nine-tails to the men's exposed skin. He could see Honeycutt tenderly spreading healing powders and salves on the open, bleeding wounds before wrapping them in bandages. There was Honeycutt's accusatory glare, telling him this was his fault. Then there were images of battle. Shock Troopers forced from their entrenchments to charge the attacking enemy. Which ones, he did not know, they were but shadows on the field. Some small, some tall, some huge. So the beautiful Guardsmen went, right into their deaths. Smashed, broken, set aflame, cut in half, riddled with bullets, gone within moments.

Such scenes disgusted him, they horrified him, but more than anything else, they broke his heart. If he were to set such actions in motion, would he be able to change them? Prevent them? How could his decisions reach that far into the future? Action and consequence, this he understood, but just how far did the latter go? Was the trade worth it? Save lives now, just to lose them all later; who could live with that decision? Surely, he could not. He would die with his men if it ever came to that.

Marsh rubbed his eyes on his sleeve to prevent tears from falling. Barlocke put an arm around him. "Do you see, sweet Silvanus? Your decisions have power. You have the power to make a difference in the lives around you, such as I do, such as all the faithful and loyal have it in them. These were the gifts the Master of Mankind gave us. Use them well, use them wisely. Temper all you do with thought, patience, and piety. Understand that man, Silvanus, before all else."

"Fine," was all Marsh Silas could say. He finished his drink, shakily rose to his feet, and whipped the bottle over the railing again. "Fine. Fine. _Fine. _If you think I can be a better Guardsman by doin' that, then _fine._"

"It won't be easy, dear friend," Barlocke said as he stood up. He finished his own Raenka and then dropped it over the railing. "The right path is never the easiest. But you've got the right stuff to make it through."

"You're jus' sayin' that."

"I mean it." Barlocke took him by the arms. "You're special, Silvanus. I knew it from the moment I saw you. You have a destiny."

Marsh stared at him for a moment. He blinked slowly, leaning against the railing behind him for support.

"The Emperor has made a destiny for us all," he said.

"And I believe He intended to weave ours together, Silvanus," said Barlocke.

The Inquisitor was very close. Wind tugged as his dark hair and his equally brown eyes twinkled. His freshly shaved pale cheeks were dusted with pink and his lips maintained a ghost of a smile. On his upper lip, he could see the tiny scar, just to the right of the center. It had long faded to a pale streak. The scarring on his right temple was deep, ugly, and pocked. Yet, it did nothing to detract from the handsome charm of the Inquisitor.

Marsh looked back at him, his violet eyes glimmering. He felt excited and nervous, confused yet ultimately clear-headed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no idea how he felt. It hardly felt as though he was standing anymore.

Barlocke ran his hand up Marsh Silas's arm and cupped his cheek, the same way he had a few hours earlier. Then, he leaned forward and kissed Marsh on his cheek. He removed his hand to his shoulder, and kissed the opposite one. A moment later, he pressed his lips against Marsh's bare forehead.

Briefly withdrawing, Barlocke gazed at him. Marsh gazed back, wide-eyed. Barlocke leaned again, his lips almost grazing Marsh Silas's.

"The fuck you doing?" Marsh grunted, shoving him back. Barlocke stumbled a little, but caught himself. Blinking, he stared at the Guardsmen for a few moments. Marsh could not tell if the Inquisitor appeared confused, hurt, or both. In any regard, he simply smiled.

"Pardon me, my dear friend. Raenka is quite a powerful drink."

Marsh folded his arms across his chest, turned around, and leaned down on the railing.

"It sure is," he replied, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He looked across the southern ramparts, watching the Guardsmen clamber up ladders in and out of emplacements. Someone called the time and everyone glanced at their wristwatches. Marsh glanced at his own, but he couldn't quite make out the time. It was still dark, with only enough moonlight to cast a soft glow across the desolate landscape around Kasr Sonnen.

Those Guardsmen went about their duty with vigor and diligence. They did not know what he was going through, or what the Inquisitor offered. Marsh Silas envied them. Recalling the poster of the brave Guardsmen striding forward, the desire to go back to the way things were before returned. No Barlocke, no Hyram, no Kasr Fortis; just him, Overton, and Bloody Platoon.

Lowering his head down, he released a loud, labored sigh. "Barlocke?"

"Yes?"

"This right path, this destiny o' mine...it ain't gonna get me killed, is it?"

"I can't promise that it will, or it won't. But that is dictated not by destiny alone. As much as the God-Emperor holds sway over the galaxy, life itself is an entity. Life is unfair."

"It must be, if it sent me you," Marsh Silas said.

"Do you believe I was sent to you? Perchance, it was you who was sent to me. Or were either of us sent? The God-Emperor may have merely set two lines of events in motion so that we would meet and carry out his will? Who is to say all this isn't an elaborate dream or a dreadful nightmare? Perhaps, we don't exist."

"You have a wonderful talent of speaking very well and utterly confusing me," Marsh Silas said, tiredly. He turned around, leaning back against the rail, if just to stay upright. "We exist. I am here, and so are you."

Barlocke smiled a little, leaning back against the other railing.

"So we are."

"You know what I wanna know? Why me? You've said you've been all over the Imperium, you've seen different worlds, different people, and much horror in your time. But you come to Cadia on a mission, and by some chance, you choose my regiment. Out of all the people you've met, out of this whole regiment, why am I up here with you?"

Barlocke stared at him for a long time. His smile faded and the deep, frigidity of his eyes returned. Once more, it seemed as if he was not just looking at him, but through him. Marsh Silas felt as though he were completely open to this man. All within his heart, mind, and soul were exposed to the Inquisitor. As terrifying as it was, it was exhilarating. It was as if he was known for the first time, not just seen.

Just maybe, Marsh Silas thought, he had not been existing. It was only now that Barlocke opened the gifts the Emperor gave him, that he existed. The God-Emperor of Mankind could finally see him.

But Barlocke began to chuckle, then he threw his head back and laughed very hard. When he finished, he nearly had tears in his eyes. Sighing happily, he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

"Dear, _dear _Silvanus, you ask why we are up here? To drink and talk; why else would we come up here?"

* * *

**Word Count**: 6,186


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

* * *

When Marsh Silas woke up, he was face down in the pillow and his morning stubble was soaked in his own saliva.

He did not remember anything after they finished their drinks the previous night. As he tried to recollect, no images filtered through his mind. Instead, certain feelings manifested within his body, like muscle memory. Weightlessness, a sensation of being carried or floating, and a terrible sickly feeling permeating in his gut. It was all he could recall.

Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped the saliva away from his mouth. Certainly, it was not the most pleasant way to wake up, but he thought it was preferable to a water-filled foxhole, muddy trench, or dusty underground bunker.

Wresting himself from the rumpled sheets, he swung his legs out and rubbed his eyes. Immediately, he held his head as a terrible ache washed over him. Bowing his head, very much hungover, he noticed that his boots and heavy socks were off. So too were his winter coat, tunic, and low-peaked cap. On the nightstand beside the bed, his grooming kit was placed.

Scratching his chin, he could not muster the energy to feel surprised.

_Hurry up, wash, and dress. We've made breakfast._

Barlocke's voice came like a slow chill traveling up his spine, splashing into his mind, and spreading like a widening puddle. Marsh Silas shivered, then glared angrily downwards. He almost wanted to stamp his feet on the floor.

_I doubt that would bar my voice from your mind._

"Stop, please," Marsh groaned, "bad enough I wake up with this here pain, now I have ta' listen ta' you."

When the Inquisitor laughed, it didn't seem so much to rumble within his head. It was more akin to rainwater trickling down the beaks of the low-mounted golden eagles on Kasr spires. But when he breathed for respite, it came like a gentle breeze. Once more, Marsh shivered and had to rub his arms just to get the cold out.

_Don't worry, young sergeant, you will adjust soon enough. Now, on the double-quick!_

Marsh Silas rose from bed, scratching the back of his head. "Peace and quiet, by the Emperor, I've found no such thing with you."

_I heard that._

"Good!" he responded venomously.

Despite his mounting irritation, Marsh Silas took a quick shower in the apartment bathroom. The cramped space had seen far better days, although to the likes of the veteran Shock Trooper it was akin to the tales of Pleasure Worlds. Privacy was something Guardsmen rarely received. Only in the Kasrs could they find it. Of course, that was because a Commissar or Astra Militarum officer was always nearby and could be alerted to any horrid heretical act.

After drying off, shaving, and dressing, Marsh took a brief moment to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. His blonde hair was neatly kept and combed and he looked fresh, even if his disposition failed to match it. Satisfied, he stopped just one more time to kneel and play to the miniature shrine built on the table opposite of the bed.

A green laurel sat upon a smooth wooden base, so polished it caught the lamplight. In the center was the golden I-shape of the Adeptus Ministorum. In the center, the Emperor's visage was carved into the flag face. It was almost as if his armored form were stepping out of it. Both of his arms were held slightly behind him, giving him the effect of floating from the golden icon. On either side of the center was a semicircle, with lines carved into one and small points along the curves. Behind the God-Emperor, the two gave shape to Holy Terra's sun.

Making the symbol of the Aquila on his breast and intertwining prayer beads in his fingers, Marsh Silas recited a morning prayer. "O' God-Emperor, I thank Thee once more for seeing Mankind to another tomorrow. I shall earn this day by good works and righteous acts, to ever remain in your light."

Kissing the beads, he tucked them into his belt pouch, patted it, stood, and headed downstairs.

Stopping at the top of the steps, he noticed the female detachment from the previous night was gone. Making a quick headcount, though, Bloody Platoon was presented and accounted for. Most filled the tables, talking quietly, smoking, and playing cards. Another group lined the bar; at the very end, two seats were vacant.

Trundling down the steps, he raised his voice. "Have you men made your morning prayers?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas!" came the reply.

"Derryhouse?"

"By the God-Emperor, I swear!"

"And what about you, ye Chimera crewmen?"

"I made sure they did," Tindall assured him, "the grease ain't addled our faith, marching man."

Marsh Silas checked in with a few groups before taking his seat. Many of the men were well-rested, fed, and eager to get back into the field. Each smiled as they shook Marsh Silas's hand, saluted, or thumped each others' backs.

The tavern's atmosphere was quite pleasant. Everyone was smiling. It was as if they had forgotten their proximity to the Eye of Terror or the determined hordes of Chaos entrenching all over Cadia. Ever aware of their duty's harsh realities, Marsh Silas was glad to see them happy before setting off once more.

When he finally headed over to the bar, he was surprised to see Drummer Boy and Barlocke behind it. From the bar, one could see past the many bottles of Amasec into the kitchen. All of the attendants and the tavern master were busy cooking. Thinly sliced-meat was sizzling on stovetop trays, permeating the tavern's air with a musky scent. Aromatic spices mingled with it.

As intrigued, and hungry, as he was, Marsh was confused. He had not smelled anything like that cooking last night, even at the busiest hour.

Drummer Boy came over. He looked giddy.

"Seems like you ought ta' have been the regimental cook," Marsh Silas joked as he sat down.

"Barlocke showed up a little while ago with a whole mess o' food! Fruits, vegetables, and meats, all kinds I ain't seen before. Nothin' we've ever had in those ruddy rations."

"I thought Bloody Platoon could use something a bit tastier than average recycled Grox meat," Barlocke said as he stepped out of the kitchen and approached the counter. "A few final good meals before we set off back for the camp, so to speak."

At first, Marsh Silas was excited himself. Cadia, being at the Eye of Terror's maw, afforded decent rations. Someone, somewhere up the bureaucratic chain decided that as prime defenders against the hordes of Chaos, they needed decent rations. Cadians could expect some vegetables, grains, and meat that hadn't been recycled too many times or were sealed for extended periods. It depended on the harvests from nearby Agri-Worlds, but they were dependable enough. Food in the Kasr's proved to be fresher still, but it was a far cry from what was available in the officer halls or noble forums.

It was then that Marsh began scrutinizing the food. Succulent foreign meats, fresh colorful fruits, and nutrient-rich vegetables? The food seemed oddly familiar to that of the officer's hall just across the road.

His violet gaze rose and met Barlocke's. The Inquisitor smiled smugly, folding his arms on the bar top and leaning forward. His face was but a small space away from Marsh, who was shaking his head.

Leaning forward, Marsh's face was hardly a hand-length away from Barlocke's.

"So, did you steal it, buy it...steal it?"

"_Requisitioned _is a more appropriate word."

"Stealin' is against the law."

"Arrest me," Barlocke dared, grinning wryly and quirking an eyebrow. He slid a plate in front of Marsh Silas; thinly-sliced Grox bacon, moist orange fruit to the side, and two pieces of buttered bread still warm from the oven. Next to it, Barlocke placed a cup of steaming hot recaf.

The Inquisitor filled two more mugs with the same brew and handed one to Drummer Boy. He raised it. "Well, to the Emperor and Imperium?"

"To the Emperor and Imperium!" Drummer Boy chimed with a big smile.

"May He always watch over us and the wings of the Aquila never furl," Marsh Silas added. The three clinked their mugs together and took a long sip. "Whew, real tasty, that."

Marsh Silas began eating while Barlocke leaned on the bar top, peacefully sipping his recaf.

After taking a bite of a large, crisp piece of Grox bacon, Marsh looked at him. "Why do you keep on thieving from them lords and ladies? It ain't fittin'."

"I have great respect for your officers, but lords and ladies? I've none for them. Your officers will fight to the bitter end, I have no doubt, but you'll find your base nobles will corrupt and flee. It was they who abandoned my homeworld to anarchy when I was but a boy." Barlocke smiled a little. "I stole from them then and if it's for the betterment of others, I'll do it again."

Marsh Silas frowned.

"Cadian nobles are of tougher stuff than wherever you came from."

"I admire your loyalty," Barlocke said. "Yes, some of them will fight until their last breaths. But all men have breaking points. You'll see one day, the illustrious nobility of the Imperium will cower while loyal Guardsmen like you fight for what is right. You will see. When Cadia stand against a tide of Chaos or an Ork WAAAGH once more, your Guardsman will hold the line and refuse to bend or break. Your officers will stand among you until the end. Nobles? Some will fight, others will make a show of it before fleeing. Most will crumble if they attempt to live and fight as you do. You will see, you will see, Marsh Silas."

He said it with such certainty, smugness, and coldness that Marsh Silas could have shivered. Very nearly, he did, and hoped Barlocke was wrong.

_I am not wrong. I have seen it. You will too. I will show you._

Barocke patted him on the forearm. "Young sergeant, keep eating, you can't waste such fine food. Drummer Boy cooked it himself!" Standing up, he waved to everyone. "Who wants a refill on their recaf?"

There was a resounding response from several of the men. Walmsley's Major and Minor, Yoxall, and Honeycutt all budged in around Marsh Silas. With a large pitcher in hand, Barlocke made a great show of filling their tin mugs back up. The strong aroma of recaf grew so strong as to be overbearing. Steam wafted around Marsh as he tried to eat. But he was happy to be among his fellow Guardsmen; they were smiling, joking, and laughing. It was always a sweet sight to see such battle-hardened men receive a well-earned rest and find a little peace in their lives.

"Ya gonna finish that there Grox bacon, Marsh Silas?" Walmsley Major asked, leaning over and placing a meaty hand at the rim of his plate.

"If you're not, I'll gladly eat it," Walmsley Minor said, leaning forward on hieft left side. Marsh pulled the plate closer to his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey, now, I ain't done yet," he said, feigning an insulted expression. Yoxall reached over his shoulder with a fork, tried to stab a piece of the meat. "Hey!"

"You don't look so hungry, man," the demolition expert said with a cheeky grin. Even Honeycutt joined the scramble for the remnants on Marsh Silas's plates, trying to steal a slice of bacon. Despite their teasing, Marsh laughed; he knew none of them were really going to take any. In the end, however, he playfully abandoned his plate and the others pretended to fall on it like ravenous dogs. But the men settled down and laughed, feeling quite silly as they sipped recaf and stuffed their mouths with Grox bacon.

Watching with amusement, Marsh Silas chuckled and walked behind the bar counter to give them room. Sipping his recaf, he watched as Drummer Boy took some empty dishes back into the kitchen. Barlocke, right behind him, turned around and waved his hand to Marsh. Lingering while the two disappeared, he cast one last look to the rest of Bloody Platoon. Seeing they were contained and jolly, he decided to follow.

As he stepped in, he realized only twice in his life had he ever set foot in a kitchen. The first was the Cross family's fortified estate house in Kasr Polaris. Despite the heavy rockcrete material and the typical jagged roadway architecture in front of the house, inside it was quite lavish. The kitchen was no exception; it was spacious, warmly lit, had an island countertop in the center, two sinks, and industrial cooking appliances. But he was a young boy in that place; most images of it were fuzzy. More so, he recalled its warmth, soft lighting, and the constant smell of aromatic spices and cooking food.

The other one he remembered was the kitchenette in his mother's apartment. It was cramped, with a few tiny counters or cupboards, a dented sink, a rusty oven, and a greasy stove top. Its only true quality was the window in between the cupboards that looked out over the militarized city on Hive World Macharia.

Just thinking of that place made Marsh Silas shiver and he was glad he would spend the rest of his life on his beloved homeworld of Cadia.

The tavern kitchen was large enough; there was a long center counter with iron railings attached to the ceiling. Pots and pans, large and small hung from the hooks. As well, there were countless utensils; tongs, ladles, whisks, tenderizing hammers, stirring spoons, and big butchers' knives. Beyond were three cavernous ovens and a trio of wide grills. At the very end were a pair of sinks so deep they seemed to be bathtubs. On either side of the main floor were cupboards, lockers, and crates brimming with foodstuffs.

The floor was dirty and some of the metal corners of the big cupboards were scratched or dented. Above, the white lights were aging, smudged, and were so dim they made the kitchen look far filthier than it was.

Most of the staff were busy at the sinks, washing dishes. Barlocke and Drummer Boy were back at the grill, using a flat spoon to flip bread.

"Just get it to a wonderful golden brown. No black, you might as well chomp on charcoal."

Drummer Boy deftly flipped the bread high into the air, caught it with the flatter side of the spoon, and placed it back on the grill. The butter it was coated in sizzled. Barlocke patted him on the back. "Let's turn the heat down just a little..."

Marsh Silas watched for a time. Barlocke continued to instruct the Drummer Boy in soft, gentle tones. Even for the most simple tasks, he praised the young Shock Trooper. One might have blushed at such kind encouragement, but Drummer Boy remained diligent. Deftly, his hands treated the meal he prepared. The attitude he carried was the same when Marsh Silas was going through weapon drills or cleansing rituals for their lasguns. It was almost funny.

Looking over his shoulder, he gazed at Bloody Platoon. His friends were still fighting over the last of the Grox bacon in a playful fashion. Sergeants Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, and Babcock were all standing off near their rucksacks with mugs of recaf. The noncommissioned officers were smiling and talking quietly among themselves, sometimes laughing or clinking their steaming mugs together. Some of the corporals were playing a card game, and the majority of rank and file Shock Troopers were spread at the tables or bar, finishing their meals or sipping strong recaf. Even the Chimera crewmen were contented as they spoke and ate.

Even away from their officers and their Commissar, the men were orderly, respectful, and held themselves like real Shock Troopers. Marsh Silas looked at his friends again to see Walmsley Major standing on the tips of his toes as he slid a piece of bacon into his mouth. Everyone else was trying to snatch it from his , he looked into his mug and shook his head.

Perhaps, he thought jokingly to himself, not all of them. But he was still proud and very happy.

But as he finished his recaf, he could not help but sigh wearily. Every Guardsman looked forward to the prospect of furlough. It was never a guarantee and it was very easy to lose it, even among the highly regimented Shock Troops. Commissars who perceived a lack of effort, discipline, or bravery would take away any designated furlough. Senior officers rarely contested the action as they trusted the Commissars; junior officers never put up any kind of defense lest they face the dangerous end of a Bolt pistol.

Nonetheless, when Guardsmen managed to achieve furlough, it was sweet for the time it lasted. But as it drew to a close, an ominous dread fell over them. The grim reality of their duty sank into their minds, hearts, bones, their very souls. Often, one felt it even as they refused to engage with it. Then came the disappointment when the officers and Commissars rounded them up, directed them back to the nearest delousing facility, processed them, and then led them back to the front. Adjustment came quickly as the Guardsmen settled back into their duties and routines. Yet, it was never pleasant. Some considered whether it was even worth going on furlough when it was so short. Prolonging the inevitable, Marsh Silas thought, seemed rather cruel.

"And what eventuality is it that you fear?" Barlocke asked him. Marsh jumped a little as the Inquisitor refilled his tin mug with steaming, sweet-smelling recaf.

"You know what it is," Marsh grumbled, rubbing his temple as if trying to bring warmth to his mind. Setting the handled pot on the counter beside them, Barlocke chuckled as he raised his own cup to his lips. After he took a sip, he sighed loudly and continued smiling.

"The one which awaits us all. Well, most of us," he added with a little shrug.

Marsh rocked his cup back and forth a little, sloshing the contents around as he chewed his bottom lip. Eventually, he set it down hard atop the counter he was leaning upon.

"Sooner we leave the better. If we're going to get back into the fight, better to do it now than wait until later."

"We're scheduled to leave tonight, Silvanus."

"Got to get them to focus. Prepare their wargear, service their lasguns, make sure they have everything they need for the sweep and clear operation."

"You're a Cadian through and through," Barlocke chuckled into his mug.

"Aye, but not a very good one I reckon," Marsh sighed, taking a slug of his recaf. When he lowered it, he found Barlocke gazing at him curiously. For a moment, he did not speak and instead reached up and rubbed his mangled, scarred right temple. Then, he ran a hand down his smooth cheeks which seemed pale gray from his early morning shave.

Eventually, he stepped back from the entryway between the two shelved walls holding rows of Amasec bottles. He leaned against the trim of the entryway, rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, and smiled very sweetly.

"Cadians are taught self-sacrifice are they not? Thus, that means they are unafraid to die, no?'

"That's the idea."

"But you are not."

Marsh Silas held his tin mug with both hands and drummed his fingers against the side. Taking a short sip, he glanced over at the men of Bloody Platoon to make sure none were paying attention. None were looking his way, so he took a step closer.

"I like to think if I had to, I'd lay down my life for the Emperor, the Imperium, and those men out yonder. I tell myself I can, and that I should. Better me than them, yes? But when we find ourselves in the fray, I'm very afraid and I ask the Emperor to spare me. To spare us all."

Barlocke was shaking his head.

"There's _nothing _wrong with that."

"Yes there _is_, yes there is!" Marsh hissed. "As long as I remember, outta all them tenants they taught me, sacrifice was the first of them all. When I was young, it meant something to me. Now that I've seen war so long, death is terrifying." Marsh turned away, looked into the kitchens, and grinded his teeth. "I'm bloody ashamed o' myself. I just get so afraid."

"I've fought with you several times; you were very brave and quite capable in all of our engagements so far."

"How can you say that? I was scared for my life."

"Still being able to act despite your fear is what bravery is all about, Silvanus." Barlocke stood up straight, stood beside him, and looked out at Bloody Platoon. "And what fool isn't afraid of death?" he asked the platoon sergeant. "Out of all who call themselves citizens and servants of the Imperium, there are only very few who are unafraid to lay down their lives. I do not rank myself in their number."

Marsh's head turned slightly and he looked up at Barlocke from the corner of his eye.

"But you be an Inquisitor. You lot are supposed to be fearless."

"Tis true, I've seen much and fear little. But I do not wish to die. I'm going to live as long as I can help it. I find what you said very agreeable; we are better servants alive than dead."

Scoffing, Marsh Silas shook his head.

"I don't remember saying that to you."

"Ah, I suppose I must have overhead you saying that to someone recently."

"I'm sure you did," Marsh said, smirking as he finished his recaf. Sighing as the sweet, warm beverage settled comfortably in his stomach, he set his mess tin on the counter beside him.

Taking out his ebony pipe, he rubbed his thumb against the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. Stuffing some tabac leaves into it, he struck a match and dipped it in. When the flame caught and smoke began rising from the leaves, he waved the match out, slid his hand into his pocket, and began puffing on the old pipe. Wispy, gray smoke rose in front of him and wafted upwards until it swirled in a lackadaisical fashion above their heads. Glancing out of the corner of his eye again, he could just see Barlocke smiling as he gazed at the Shock Troopers in the dining room. Looking back into the dimly lit kitchen, he watched Drummer Boy finish toasting a few more slices of bread. Nimbly buttering them, he set them on a dish on the flat counter space between the grills and ovens, and placed a few more slices on.

After taking a few more puffs, he opened his mouth and let the smoke roll from his mouth. Two streams drifted steadily out of his nostrils. "Those who are unafraid, you said, to give up their lives for Emperor and Imperium, do you think them foolish?"

"Hm? No, no. I still have great admiration for their like. Death is not something they dream of, yet they believe it has meaning. No, not foolish. I pity them."

Turning so he could show him his incredulous expression, Marsh looked up at the Inquisitor. But Barlocke refused to meet his gaze as he stared mystically ahead. "Do not mistake me; we must never leave the Emperor's light and must obey his word. That does not mean we should not be left wanting; love, livelihood, comfort, security, meaning. The priests and the Commissars will say that service is its own reward, and it is, at least I think so. Do you?'

Marsh Silas nodded eagerly and earnestly. Barlocke shook his head a little and smiled. "But it is human for us to want. Remain pious, contribute, serve in some way, to have a _choice _in how you serve and what you want from life, that is acceptable. It should be. The Emperor did not want us to be slaves; His vision was to uplift us to our greatest potential. He wanted humanity to reach its pinnacle. And do you know what is an innate trait of humanity, young Silvanus?"

"Piety?"

"Of course."

"Loyalty?"

"Naturally."

"Servitude?"

"Mhm..."

Barlocke looked at him, his expression urging him on. Marsh tapped the stem of his pipe against his bottom lip.

"Choice?"

"Yes!" Barlocke said, turning him and clapping him on the shoulder. Marsh could not help but blush at the prideful expression on the Inquisitor's face. "Choice! The Emperor wanted us to have and to make choices!" He chuckled.

His delighted expression soon faded back into neutrality as he turned again. Taking a sip of recaf, he traced his finger around the rim. "Tis why I pity those few whose hearts are devoid of fear. Like those of the Adeptus Astartes, the Adepta Sororitas, and the..."

Here, his voice trailed off. Marsh narrowed his gaze. For a moment, the Inquisitor's mouth hung open slightly. Both lips trembled and quivered. Soon, his eyes began to glimmer as tears threatened to fall.

But he swiftly cleared his throat and took another drink, finishing his recaf. When he turned to face Marsh Silas, he smiled sadly. "I respect them, honor them, and hold them in the highest regard. Do not mistake my pity for contempt. They serve the Imperium just as you or I do. But, it saddens me to know they will never know life like you or I ever will."

Marsh Silas could feel the sadness resonating from Barlocke. It was like the shockwave that came from a nearby grenade, except it was one wave after the other and far less concussive. But he could _feel _it hitting his body, washing over it, and passing off into the unknown. Instead of fighting it, Marsh closed his eyes for a brief moment and let himself bask in it. For a moment, it felt like tears would roll down his cheeks from such heartache.

Drawing a breath, he opened his eyes, curled his hand into a loose fist, and gingerly tapped it twice against Barlocke's shoulder. This seemed to make him wake up from his miserable languor. He then squeezed his shoulder as he would one of his Guardsmen, assuring them he was beside them and understood.

Tenderly, Barlocke reached up and patted the top of his hand. Inhaling and sighing, Barlocke put a hand on his hip and looked back out at the men. "What I would not give for a little music? What kind of music do you like?"

"All I know are marching tunes."

"As colorful as they may be, that's all those songs are good for𑁋marching! I mean something you can _dance _to, young sergeant!"

"Ain't nobody in this here platoon can dance, Barlocke."

Frowning, the Inquisitor looked around. Going into the kitchen, he conferred with the tavern owner. Bemused, the owner disappeared into a back room. A few minutes later, he returned with a strange device. There was a square base made of synthetic wood and a horizontal slot on the front face. Built into the top of the box, which was no bigger than a charge pack can, was an oddly shaped brass tube that turned into a very wide, open funnel.

"...I traded for it when I served with the 801st Artillery Regiment. The Civilized folk on Vanity II would play us music from time to time."

He set it down on one of the tables, took a disc out of his back pocket, and slid it into the tray. Tapping a button beside it, there was a brief crackle before music Marsh Silas never heard before spilled out of the funnel. Everyone ceased their conversations and looked up in surprise. The notes were jaunty, upbeat, and quick. Instruments foreign to his ears twanged and plucked, and a steady beat behind them immediately made his foot tap. Suddenly, Barlocke snatched his hand and brought him out.

"Dance with me, my dear Silvanus!"

"What, I𑁋"

"I'll teach you! Don't look at your feet and follow my lead! Don't laugh, Drummer Boy, you're next!"

###

By the time the Chimera's rolled into Army's Meadow, the men were still laughing. They disembarked and assembled in good order, smiling, giggling, and bouncing on their feet. The songs they listened to, from the slow and elegant to the breezy and buoyant, still rang in their ears. Captain Murga and Commissar Ghent were more confused than anything else as they inspected the men, but quickly restored order among the Shock troopers.

Standing side by side in front of the platoon, formed, Inquisitor Barlocke and Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas delivered a report on the conduct of the men during their brief, two-day furlough. Both the company commander and Commissar were very pleased with the platoon's health and respectable activity in Kasr Sonnen. Not a word was mentioned about joyriding, stealing Raenka, or dancing for the better part of the day, even as the men concealed their giddy grins and stifled their snickers.

When they were finally dismissed, Barlocke said goodbye and goodnight, before making his way to the regimental headquarters. Marsh Silas led Bloody Platoon up the slope and to their barracks. Along the way, they greeted their friends in Second and Third Platoons as well as saluting non-commissioned and commissioned officers. One by one, they descended the ladder and filtered into their bunks.

Marsh Silas, along with Yoxhall, Drummer Boy, Walmsley's Major and Minor, Honeycutt, Logue, and Foley, pushed through the mass of men as they dumped their wargear and took off their heavy coats. It was noisy; men coughed, conversed, and laughed, rucksacks jingled and rattled, straps snapped, and boots thudded on the dirty flooring.

Tired, but otherwise comfortable, Marsh Silas sat on the edge of his earthen bunk as he took off his flak armor. Setting it down on the floor, he stood and turned around to take off his jacket.

"Goin' up," said Yoxhall from behind him.

"Goin' up!" Marsh Silas echoed as he crouched down. Yoxhall, barefooted, stepped onto the platoon sergeant's shoulder and slid into the top bunk. He sighed loudly and happily. Marsh just chuckled. After taking off his jacket and heavy trousers, he placed both on the hook they nailed into the wooden bracing they used to shore up the earth around their bunk. Now in his standard fatigues, he undid the suspenders from his trousers and let them hang loose around his side. Just when he knelt to untie his boots, he noticed light emanating from Lieutenant Hyram's quarters.

For a time, he nearly forgot about the platoon commander. Kneeling on the floor, he stared at the olive drab curtain hanging from the horizontal bar at the top of the entryway. It was still and he could hear nothing from behind it.

As Honeycutt went around the comb, turning off the lamp packs and blowing out candles, they were plunged into darkness. Eventually, only the thin beams of light escaping from between the ends of the curtain and the edge of the wooden-trimmed entryway remained.

Feeling a sense of responsibility wash over him and hearing Barlocke's words echo within his mind, Marsh Silas inhaled sharply. Determined, he rose to his feet and went to the curtain. "Sir, Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir."

"Granted," came a quiet, groggy reply after a few moments.

Pushing the curtain aside, Marsh Silas entered. He found the room undisturbed, although a rank smell of urine and feces hung in the air. Wrinkling his nose, Marsh Silas took out a handkerchief, he entered deeper into the room and found a sizeable metal bucket nearly filled to the brim with a strange, brown-yellow soup within.

"Oh, sir, this ain't no way to be," Marsh gasped. Looking around, he found a white cloth on Hyram's desk. Taking it, he wrapped it around the handle and brought it to the passage. "Drummer Boy, get over here."

The Voxman poked his head in and immediately turned green. Marsh held out the bucket. "Here, take this topside and dump it in the sea. Wash the bucket with seawater first, then use some spare soap from the platoon chest."

"Do we really need this bucket? Can't we just throw it into the sea, too?"

"It's a platoon item, Drummer Boy. Take it, go on, and for the love of the Emperor, don't drop it."

Reluctantly, Drummer Boy took the handle and the cloth from Marsh Silas. Pressing it to his mouth, he disappeared through the tunnel works. Even from inside Hyram's quarters, the staff sergeant could hear Guardsmen groaning, coughing, and swearing as Drummer Boy made his way topside.

"I'm sorry, Marsh Silas. I just ain't had much inclination to come out."

"The Emperor must be watching over you; if Commissar Ghent or Captain Murga caught you like this, they would have shot you."

"They think I'm ill, so they've left me alone," Hyram wheezed.

Marsh Silas walked over to him. The lieutenant was laying on his right side and was facing the wall. The pict-capture of his son was still in his hand as well as a brown bottle of Amasec. From the smell alone, as Barlocke taught him, it was not the cheap kind either. When he stepped forward to lean over Hyram, just to see his face, the fronts of his boots bumped into several empty bottles on the flooring. Each one clinked and rolled away.

Hyram looked very pale. Dark bags sagged under his eyes and the stubble was very thick on his cheeks. In all the time he stayed in the bed, it seemed as if he had not been able to sleep at all.

Animosity began to rise and rise inside Marsh Silas. Seeing this man, this Cadian, residing in his own squalor and making no effort at all was infuriating. All his life, Marsh was around the most martial Cadians, who were courageous, skillful, experienced, and pious. Some retreated, some broke, some went insane, but so many did their duty. Here, this man seemed so low and little. It was as if he stole another Cadian's violet eyes and tuft of blonde hair, replacing his own with the facades.

Yet, his glaring eyes softened and his clenched teeth parted. As he recalled his numerous conversations with Barlocke, he knew he was not the perfect Cadian either. No matter how brave the Inquisitor thought he was, Marsh knew the fear in his chest defied the Cadian beliefs he held so dearly. Just the previous night, he too was drunk, committed theft, and took a ride that he definitely should not have. What's more, Marsh had no wife and son of his own and his feet were planted on the soil of his homeworld. Hyram's family and home were far, far away from here. Who was he to judge this man?

Sighing, he reached forward and clutched Hyram's upper arm. His eyes widened from their hazy squint and he turned slightly, looking at Marsh Silas. In turn, the staff sergeant offered a small, kind smile, and rubbed Hyram's arm a little. "There, there, sir, no shame. We all miss our comforts."

Turning around, Marsh Silas took the chair from Hyram's desk and brought it beside his bunk. In the same instant, he picked up the pict-capture of the officer's uniformed parents. Rubbing the dust from it with his thumb, he sighed and looked up every so often. "I'm sorry for the way I've been treatin' you, sir. It ain't fair to expect you to become what you ain't in a matter of weeks. We've been training since we was born, and fighting for half our lives or more. Cadian you are, you're not like us. Not in the fighting sense, I mean."

Leaning back a little, he looked up at Hyram, still half-turned. "You got some big shoes to fill and I doubt you ever wanted to. I can't say that I know exactly what you're going through. I mean, my mother was no noble and she never made an officer grade. My father, he was a minor noble and a regimental commander, but nobody took him that seriously, especially after he married my mother. I'm just another Shock Trooper. But you, you've got a legacy you didn't want to be a part of and it must be right difficult seeing as your parents forced you into it."

"No, no, no!"

Hyram rolled over onto his left so he was facing Marsh Silas, and propped himself up on his arm. "They _didn't _want me to go. For my entire life, they kept me bottled up in that coffin they called an officer, pounding away at a terminal keyboard while other Guardsmen on Cadia and all over the Imperium fought and died for the Emperor. 'But son, operating a clerk's officer is a service to the Emperor,' they always said. But it's not, sergeant, it most certainly is not."

At this point, tears welled in his eyes. In his half-drunken voice, he continued. "I felt worthless. I felt like I had no agency, no choice in my own life! I wanted to enlist, my parents sent me to school. I tried to earn a commission by inspection, but they purchased it instead. I signed up for a combat post on Cadia, and they pulled strings to get me an officer on Cypra Mundi." He spat, but he was swaying from being upright and nearly got it on Marsh Silas's boots.

Wiping his mouth and sniffling, he shook his head. "So I bided my time, waited when they grew disinterested with me and doted over my son. When I was _sure _they weren't looking, I applied for a transfer and it was approved! Oh, sergeant, you should have seen the looks on their faces. I was so proud of myself."

He laughed drunkenly and slapped his thigh half a dozen times. "But how can I be proud, now? I haven't the training or the experience, I'm a coward, and I'm useless. I can't even get out of my own bunk! My boyhood dreams are just going to get people killed. Maybe I ought to just turn myself in and take the Bolt shell. I'm no good to anyone..."

Marsh Silas stared at him blankly for what felt like hours. Abruptly, he dropped the pict-capture on the floor, stood up, and snatched the bottle of Amasec from his Hyram's other hand. "Hey!"

Winding his arm, he pitched the bottle against the opposite wall. It shattered into pieces and the remaining contents spilled onto the desk. Whirling around, he found Hyram struggling to get out of his bed. Just as he did, he nearly fell over. Catching him by the collar of his fatigue jacket, Marsh Silas dragged him over to the end of his quarters, knocking the chair over in the process. Roughly, he held him up against the wall and kept his collar bunched in his fist.

"You're right," he growled, "you're no good, no good to anyone, except to the Emperor and _Marsh Silas._"

Hyram's head swayed and his violet eyes struggled to maintain Marsh's gaze. He shook him, trying to rattle his eyes back into focus. "I'm going to train you. I'm going to shape you and whip you up until you're a proper Shock Trooper. Until you can shoot the hand off a heretic at three-hundred meters, until you can lob a grenade across a field, and march in-step! You're going to become a Cadian Shock Trooper or you will die trying. Am I understood, sir?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas," Hyram responded meekly.

"I can't hear you!"

"Yes, Marsh Silas!"

"Who do we serve?"

"The Emperor!"

"Who are we?"

"Cadians!"

"And do you know the first thing Cadians learn?" Marsh asked him. Wide-eyed and sobered, Hyram shook his head. "They learn how to stand up straight!"

Grabbing him by the shoulders, Marsh made him stand up as stiff as he could. He kicked his feet until they were pointing out and his heels were pressed together. Slapping his arms down by his sides, he then placed his own hands on Hyram's shoulders. The officer looked as though he was terrified, elated, and exhausted in the same instant.

Marsh Silas leaned in close. "Tomorrow, the real training begins!"

* * *

**Word Count: **6,751


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

* * *

Next morning, Army's Meadow was alive with activity. The entire 1333rd Cadian Regiment was assembled and formed in the main courtyard in front of the regimental headquarters. Each of the three companies were arrayed in crisp, tan winter fatigues and shining olive drab flak armour. All of their wargear was polished and blessed with holy ointments. Every man stood rigidly with his left arm straight against his side and with his right hand clutching the strap of his M36 Kantrael Pattern lasgun. Bayonets were attached under the barrel and glinted in the pale sunlight. Tiny white puffs appeared and disappeared in front of the men's mouths as they breathed in the chilly air.

The first platoon of every company was standing in the front ranks, with their commander and his team, consisting of the platoon sergeant, color bearer, medic, and Voxman, standing side by side in front. Right behind the first platoon was the second platoon, with their two leaders in front, creating a space between their front rank of Guardsmen and the last rank of Guardsmen in the first platoon. Arrayed in the same way was the third platoon, right behind the second. Behind each third platoon were the Heavy Weapons and Special Weapons platoon.

Arrayed behind the infantrymen were the other various personnel of the regiment. Dozens of Ministorum priests stood in full regalia and packs of menials which numbered nearly one hundred. Enginseers, accompanied by flocks of servitors, also stood by. With them stood five Sanctioned Psykers; each wore a gray trench coat and clutched a golden or silver staff bearing the Aquila at the top. Dispersed among the infantry companies were the few Commissars assigned to the regiment,

In front of the first platoon was the captain and their command staff, composed roughly in the same faction as the platoon command squads; first sergeants, executive officers, color sergeants, Commissars, priests, Voxmen, and other personnel.

Facing the entire regiment was Inquisitor Barlocke, Colonel Isaev, senior Commissar Ghent, the intelligence officer Captain Giles and his adjutant Lieutenant Eastoft, and a host of other staff officers. Each of the officers were wearing their tan, low-peaked soft cover hats.

On the main roadway that snaked its way across, all the Chimeras operated by the regiment were lined up in a column. Steam rose from hot, rumbling engines as the vehicles sat in front of the infantrymen Crews finished loading hull and pintle-mounted Heavy Bolters. Last minute inspections observed treads and turret rotation. The Leman Russ company seconded to the 1333rd Cadian Regiment, drawn from the 227th Cadian Armoured Regiment, consisted of ten main battle tanks. Five sat at the head of the column while the remaining five acted as a rearguard. All the tankers of the Second Company of 227th were grizzled, scarred, and their tan fatigues were covered with black grease stains.

It was an awesome display of power. To see active vehicles with invigorated Machine Spirits, bristling with weapons, combined with the full might of the regiment, was inspiring to a veteran Guardsmen like Marsh Silas. When fighting grew long and grueling all he had to do was look at the regiment in its power and grandeur. One look and his heart swelled with pride to call himself a Cadian Shock Trooper. At times, when he turned around and around, looking at the brave men he led, at the powerful machines of war at their disposal, he wanted to drop to his knees in thanks to the Emperor.

He was ready to go. Up in front of the regiment, he could see Barlocke smiling eagerly. When his dark brown eyes locked with Marsh's, they both nodded at each other.

Then, the Inquisitor stepped forward. His open, black trench coat shone in the sunlight and his silver, light power armour cuirass gleamed too.

"Men, before we jump off, I thought you would all appreciate one final display of the Imperium's might. Across the channel, the heretics have foolishly left their feeble craft at dock. They think us benign, blind, and dumb. Today, we show them we are anything but. Follow me."

After taking a cautious moment to look at each other and their undisturbed Commissars, the infantry followed Barlocke up the slope. Bloody Platoon was able to assemble around him, but most of the regiment had to stand on the beach defenses or clamber to high spots around the camp.

Just as he said, across the channel were the surviving watercraft the heretics used to travel between their holdfast and the mainland. At high tide, the boats were bobbing around the sagging, rotten wooden docks. Marsh Silas took out his magnoculars and peered at them through the scope. Little figures crawled up and down ropes and ladders like tiny, black insects. When he lowered his magnoculars, he found Barlocke beside him.

The Inquisitor turned on his heel to face the Basilisk battery below the slope. They were dug in across from the regimental headquarters. The Earthshaker Cannons were already high in the air and aimed towards Kasr Fortis. Every single artilleryman was at the ready, poised to load one of the mammoth shells and yank the cord. Only the battery commander, a captain, who had a face covered with ancient, rugged burn scars, was standing by.

In a swift, deliberate motion, Barlocke took his wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat off and let his arm fall sharply to his side. The battery commander saluted, whirled around, and began barking orders. The loader slid a round into the breech and closed it. The gunner checked his trajectory again.

"Three, two one, fiiiiiiire!" the artillery captain cried, waving his hand towards Kasr Fortis. The gunner pulled the cord as hard as he could. _Ba-whom! _Murmurs rippled through the infantrymen as the spotting shell whistled away, flew over the channel, and landed right on a large fishing trawler. Instead of a great explosion, the shell fell with such velocity it cut right through the wooden vessel. With its back effectively broken, the ship soon split in half. Both middle ends immediately dipped in the water. Soon, the bow and stern were both sliding beneath the waves. The captain dropped his arm again. "Fire for effect!" he screamed.

Four Earthshaker cannons went off simultaneously. The combined concussion was so massive even at the top of the throat Marsh lost his breath for a moment. Some of the shells hit the dock or fell on the boats. This time, there were great columns of smoke and debris. Each of the wooden docks was so weak they were swept away by the force of the impacts, like brush thrown about by the wind. Smaller boats rocked in the channel water and some shattered into pieces from sheer ferocity of the rounds. Another volley was fired by the Basilisks. Once more, the docks disappeared into gray clouds of rockcrete dust, rockcrete chunks, wooden splinters, and seawater. One of the shells hit a larger boat's engine which erupted into a fiery explosion. When the fireball flew skyward, the whole regiment began cheering and whistling. Men took their helmets off and waved them, pumped their fists into the air, or held up their lasguns.

The barrage continued; rounds would hit, an impact cloud would rise, and then the explosion's report would echo across the channel. Each volley of shells struck in rapid succession. Boats exploded, broke, capsized, and sank. Heretics were thrown into the water and disappeared among the wreckage. Others were simply blown out of sight or into pieces. Large columns of white water shot upwards and descended on the burning wreckage.

By the time it ceased, the wooden docks were gone as was the rockcrete pier. All that remained was the steep, crated brown soil that led to the water. Each of the boats sank beneath the waves. Only planks of wood, frayed ropes, torn rigging, and bobbing metal slices from engines, sat on the surface. Before long, the current swept them away and out to sea.

Barlocke donned his cap and raised his hand to cut the cheering off.

"Jump off is in twenty minutes. Prepare yourselves men, we will _not _be returning to Army's Meadow for some time."

As the Inquisitor went to confer with the regimental command staff, Marsh Silas led Bloody Platoon down the slope back to the staging area. When they returned to the paved courtyard and the companies assembled, Bloody Platoon started checking their gear again. Men lit lho-sticks, drank from their canteens, or consumed the contents of a ration as they pooled their resources. They patted their rucksacks down, tightened their webbing, stuffed extra charge packs and autopistol magazines into their empty pouches. Frag and Krak grenades were arranged on their belts and bandoliers. A few taped magazines and charge packs to their ankles, biceps, and helmets. Scabbard containing trench or combat knives taped to more accessible spots, such as the forearm.

Even though they woke before dawn to prep their gear and run through the operational details one more time, the Shock Troopers wanted to be sure they were ready. They checked without orders from their sergeants, officers, or Commissars𑁋orders were unnecessary.

Walking with Lieutenant Hyram, Marsh Silas motioned towards the men.

"You see, sir, you gotta know what kinda men you're leading, here. All of these Shock Troopers are qualified veterans, even Drummer Boy. They've seen a _lot _o' action. But the most important thing is, you got a small number o' really smart fellows."

There was Honeycutt, he explained, the platoon medic. On top of his duties to care for the men both in and out of combat, he was in charge of the Field Chirurgeons in each squad. As well, he was one of several men who saw action outside of Cadia, making him an invaluable asset. While each squad possessed a Voxman, Drummer Boy was the Hyram's personal operator. Being a Voxman was more than just turning knobs, pressing buttons, and relaying messages; Drummer Boy was an expert technician who knew how to maintain and repair Vox-sets from helmet-mounts to communication banks. What's more, he knew all of the channels, frequencies, and call signs utilized on the network from individual squads within the regiment to Cadian High Command. Memorization was important as radio call signs shifted often, sometimes even daily.

Then there was Marsh's own close friend Arnold Yoxhall. On the surface, he was a demolitions expert but that did bestow proper dignity to his position. Many Veteran Guardsmen were proficient in demolitions from their experiences and in-field training. But Yoxhall attended Militarum schools on Cadia to learn how to be a combat engineer. While no enginseer, he was capable of repairing weapons and vehicles and was more than qualified for demolitions. In terms of their heavy weapons, the man with the most knowledge was Walmsley Major. While he seemed lacking as a tactician, he was versed both through training and experience in heavy weaponry. Whether it was an autocannon or Heavy Bolter, he knew how to fix them, clean them, and most importantly, deploy them. Heavy weapons tactics were an important aspect of an infantry platoon and he was capable of arranging their squads in support of the line troopers.

All of the men in the Special Weapons Squads were also noteworthy. Using anything from a long-las, like Bullard, to a plasma gun, like Hitch and Derryhouse, required higher degrees of training and weapon knowledge. As well, the non-commissioned officers in the platoon𑁋Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, and Stainthrope𑁋were all expert Guardsmen who led soldier's lives. "Sergeants are the backbone of any platoon, sir. They've got the most time in, sometimes more than officers and can operate on their own in a fight; they've got a degree of, aut...auto..."

"Autonomy?"

"Yes, that's the one."

Lieutenant Hyram nodded attentively as he absorbed the information.

"A few very smart men, I understand," Hyram said attentively. "What does that make the others?"

"A bunch o' really _mean _fellows!" Marsh Silas replied with a proud grin. "These are men who know how to use a bayonet and aren't afraid of a close fight. They won't break easily and they'll fight tooth and nail to hold a position. Cadian Shock Troops are some of the best the Guard has to offer in the first place? But veterans? You're looking at expert soldiers, sir."

They stopped a short distance away from the men as they continued to pour over their wargear. Hyram hooked his thumb in a belt loop, smiled, and nodded.

"A few smart fellows, and a lot of mean ones." He turned to Marsh Silas and smiled. "What an excellent group to go to war with."

Marsh Silas's grin widened.

"Exactly."

"What else do I need to know about the boys?"

The smile dropped instantly. Marsh put a hand on Hyram's shoulder pauldron and stopped him.

"Sir, meanin' no disrespect, but don't be calling'em boys. They're _men_. Call'em men. Not so many Guardsmen get to live so long."

"Yes, quite right. Apologies."

Hyram looked embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck and his gaze fell to his boots. Pursing his lips for a moment, Marsh looked at him sighed.

"Sir, I'll tell you straight. If you could pick'em, these are the kinda men you'd be wanting to take to war. But if they had a pick o' officers, they would most certainly _not_ pick you. But these are loyal men and they're good soldiers. You give them an order, they'll follow it. You tell them to do something and they shall do it."

"But what if it's a bad order?"

"Well, I'll be there," Marsh said, then laughed. "I'm no General Mansfeld, but I know a thing or two about small unit tac-tics. I'll help you."

"That's reassuring."

"You've got some mighty big boots to fill. Lieutenant Overton was an expert officer, a man of fine character," Marsh sighed and placed his hands on his hips, "and a very good friend of mine. Maybe that's why I've been hard on you, sir."

"I don't blame you. I'm the poorest soldier in this entire regiment."

"Not for long. Whiteshields don't become Guardsmen overnight, sir. It takes years of training. I'm going to be with you every step of the way during this operation, but you can't be an empty uniform. You're going to have to..." Marsh paused, smirked and chuckled a little, "...make decisions. You'll have choices to make. You're gonna have to make'em. These men are depending on you."

Lieutenant Hyram stood up straighter than ever and nodded. A different air hung around Hyram at that moment. Nervousness still clung to his violet eyes and his hands were jittery. Yet, there was a renewal of energy and determination. Nearly a week's time ago, Marsh Silas saw that reservoir of grit and courage open when it came to the lives of the children. Something sprang up within him and spurred him to take action. When they marched across that rough terrain, he kept pace. During the ambush and the subsequent firefight, he fought harder than he ever had before.

Looking at him, nearly standing at attention like a fresh face in the Youth Army, he could see the reservoir was ready to spill over again.

Somewhere inside you, Marsh Silas thought, is a Cadian Guardsman.

Hyram's gaze was drawn towards the road suddenly. Marsh turned. A single Chimera was rolling up the road towards the convoy. Everyone looked its way; it was a peculiar sight. As common as it was for other columns or detachments to roll in and out of Army's Meadow to rearm, repair, or refuel, nobody expected one on that morning.

With the road effectively clogged by the impatient convoy, it eventually parked in an auxillary motor pool past the refugee camp. The ramp lowered and a full-fledged Commissar, followed by a squad of thirteen other Commissariat types, walked briskly down.

Before Marsh Silas could utter a word of worry or query, Colonel Isaev walked in front of them with Commissar Ghent. Inquisitor Barlocke slowly followed; he turned slightly and glanced at Marsh. He looked just as perplexed as everyone else.

The detail stopped in front of Colonel Isaev. Up close, Marsh Silas could see the majority of the group were Commissar Cadets, although three were Junior Commissars.

"Colonel Isaev!" the leader said as he saluted. "Commissar Althaust."

"Althaus, you bear another glorious wound."

The newcomer wore a red bionic eyepiece over the right socket, had a gnarly scar on his left cheek, and part of the skin on the right side of his mouth was sheared away, revealing a few missing teeth.

"Aye, I do, Ghent," he said, and turned back to Colonel Isaev.

"Are you in need of assistance, Commissar?" Isaev asked shrewdly.

"Cadian High Command informed me that you will be going into the field for prolonged operation. I have with me a fresh squad of Cadets as well as some experienced Junior Commissars. I asked for permission to speak with you to see if you should wish this squad to join your ranks and prove themselves to the Commissariat and the Emperor."

Isaev nodded a little and gazed at the squad assembled behind Althaus. Unlike their seniors, the Cadets wore black coats with blue trim and wore more flak armour than the average Commissar. Each still wore the distinctive high-peaked hat rather than a helmet. Instead of power swords and sidearms, they carried average M36 lasguns. The Junior Commissars were dressed in a similar fashion, although they had swords and carried either a laspistol or Bolt pistol. One of them, the only woman among them, lacked a sword and wore a power fist instead.

She was staring straight ahead at Colonel Isaev and was still standing at attention. Her orange hair was tied back in a strict regulation bun. A faded, but still noticeable scar ran from the left corner of her mouth all the way back to the end of her jawline. Part of her right eyebrow was sheared away by what looked like a laser burn. From some damage, her nose seemed puggish, but she possessed elegant, pale cheeks. Her eyes were a vivid mixture of green and blue, like the channel surf just before a wave broke.

Her high-collared jacket was glossy black and she wore a standard olive drab flak breastplate like others. She wore the standard issue greaves and armoured knee pad over her tan battle-dress trousers, but only on the left leg. The right was a robotic prosthetic, heavily armored yet flexible in the joints. The red, high-peaked cap bore a golden emblem of the Officio Prefectus on it𑁋a skull with empty eyes, jagged teeth, a missing lower jaw, and a pair of Aquila-like wings on each side of it.

More striking than anything else was her olive drab power fist. Like her cap, the top of the fist bore the same icon. An extra armour plate ran just above the base knuckles and the fingers armour, while flexible, was upgraded to be heavier. At the fingertips, the metal was shaped into a sharp point, almost like a claw. However, instead of the typical bucket-type sleeve, it was seated on a leather glove with a sleeve that ran to the elbow. Light armour plates were seated within the leather, but there were leather straps and loopholes that secured it tightly to the forearm.

Marsh Silas stared at her for a time until Colonel Isaev turned to Commissar Ghent.

"What's say you? Do you wish to take these fine soldiers of the Officio Prefectus with us?"

"I should be honored to," Ghent said.

"If it were up to me, I would say yes. But we are currently seconded to the Holy Inquisition and Inquisitor Barlocke commands absolutely. The decision lies with him."

That's when Marsh Silas grew nervous. Commissars of any type, even those without authority to execute Guardsmen at will, filled him with an amalgamation of admiration and terror. Having more than the small number afforded to the regiment was more than he could bear.

He watched as Barlocke looked over his shoulder. His expression shifted from serious to gleeful the moment locked eyes with Marsh Silas. As rapidly and clandestinely as possible, Marsh Silas shook his head.

_Oh, come now, Silvanus. It might be fun. _

"You promised me not one more man of Bloody Platoon would fall," Marsh said, whispering so low not even Hyram noticed him. "Taking them on increases those chances."

_You have absolute faith in the Emperor, do you not?_

Impatiently, Marsh rolled his eyes and nodded towards Hyram. "You bloody well know I do. I'm going to have a hard enough time keeping him alive, already..."

_I ask not for your absolute faith, as flattering as that might be, but for you to reserve just a little bit for me. _

Barlocke resumed his grim expression and gazed at Commissar Althaus.

"I think it's most appropriate to bring them along, even if just for the extra firepower. Consider yourselves a part of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment."

Althaus nodded and turned to his minors.

"You heard the Inquisitor! Fall in, you maggots!"

Just as they began to rush towards the regiment, Barlocke caught the shoulder of the red-haired Commissar.

"Come with me," he said in a charming tone. He began leading her towards Hyram and Marsh Silas.

"Shit, shit, shit..." Marsh muttered under his breath.

"These are the commanders of the First Platoon of the First Company; Lieutenant Hyram, and Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, but most call him Marsh Silas. And you are?"

"Junior Commissar Lillias Juventas Carstensen!" she replied loudly.

Marsh immediately saluted, which she returned. As soon as he dropped his arm, she turned slightly to salute Hyram. She raised her arm with such speed the platoon sergeant could hear the _thwip _of her leather sleeve.

"First Platoon has earned the epithet of Bloody Platoon; first to spill blood, first to shed blood. You look very capable so you shall accompany them into combat."

"Yes, Inquisitor!" Carstensen answered.

"Good."

He peeled away from them, rejoining Colonel Isaev. Marsh Silas watched him go in disbelief, then looked back at Castensen with Hyram. She was standing stock still, as if waiting to be further acknowledged.

Hyram cleared his throat.

"Welcome to Bloody Platoon."

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you have everything you need? Ammunition? Supplies?"

"Enough, thank you sir," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to the rucksack she was carrying.

"Are you aware of the mission?"

"I was given only minor details."

Hyram took on a rather official tone as he ran through the core aspects of the operational plans. Fortis Sector was compromised due to the vast number of isolated stads and reinforced villages occupied by squatters. The regiment was going to sweep and clear the entire sector of squatters; after a screening, the uncorrupted would be evacuated to Kasr Sonnen for reeducation. Any heretics were to be dispatched. Above all, the villages were to be razed. Denying the heretic bastion in Fortis any means to hide among the loyal was paramount before they attempted to assault the dead Kasr.

"I understand, sir," Carstensen replied.

Just as he began to point out the NCO's, a cry rang out.

"The 1333rd Cadian Regiment is moving out!"

Marsh Silas's worry dissipated as the Colonel waved his arm and pointed at the Chimeras. Turning around smartly, he cupped his hand around his mouth.

"Bloody Platoon, mount up!"

There was a great cheer as engines roared and the ramps descended.

###

Like the village they encountered a week's time ago and the scatter of fishing steads on Army's Meadow, the first hamlet they arrived at possessed no name. Occupying a slice of the flatlands that made up the sector, it possessed no distinctive geographical traits save for a few feeble fields of crops in the nearby land. Many of the rockcrete buildings were quite old looking, leftover from a hard-fought battle. Pockmarks from bullets, burns from lasguns, and nicks from flying shrapnel decorated every wall.

Most of the buildings were two stories tall and had walls extended from their base and wrapped around them, effectively turning each one into a small compound. It was larger than those they previously trekked through; there were three lines of houses, effectively forming three streets.

Marsh Silas, standing in the Chimera turret, watched as their section of the convoy broke off. A single Leman Russ tank accompanied their Chimeras. The APCs ssembled in two formations; half broke off and formed a coil outside of town so Captain Murga could establish a command post. The other half formed a line at the town's mouth to secure it.

Hearing the ramp drop, Marsh Silas ducked back into see Hyram, Carstensen, and the platoon command squad, rushing out. He was right behind them.

Stepping back into the light of day, the squads formed up. There was a great deal of shouting as the platoons disembarked and secured the perimeter. When the cry of, 'all clear,' rang out among the company, Murga assembled Lieutenants Hyram, Comstock, and Savidge along with their platoon sergeants.

"One platoon to a street, start clearing houses. Search for any signs of heresy."

Bloody Platoon was assigned the rightermost road; Second Platoon took the center, and Third Platoon the left. The right road was peculiar; on the left side, the buildings ran about three quarters of the way up the road itself. However, the structures on the opposite ran all the way to the top of the dirty street and there was a large, two-story block house beside the last rightside building, overlooking the road.

Lieutenant Hyram took the command squad, as well as Second Squad, to search the houses on the left side. Marsh Silas took First Squad to the opposite side. Unsurprisingly for Marsh Silas, Inquisitor Barlocke joined him.

"Excited?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Overjoyed," Marsh said, grimacing. Making sure Carstensen was out of earshot as the pair approached the first on the left. He knocked on the door. "Inquisition! I made my choice, just like you said. I'm going to get Hyram, but if he makes one mistake, that Junior Commissar will report him to Ghent. And we both know what _he'll _do."

"Bolt shells and headshots?" Barlocke chuckled. "Did you consider she might be able to help keep some of your men alive?"

"Is that a joke? That's a joke, isn't it?"

Barlocke just laughed again as the door opened. A middle-aged fellow with graying blonde hair opened the door. Leaning down a little, Barlocke smiled at him.

"Hello, fine sir. I am a representative of our most Holy Inquisition. You will have to be removed from your home and relocate to Kasr Sonnen. The 1333rd shall provide transport. Take one bag. Oh, and you must submit to a search of the premises."

The man stared at him, wide-eyed and mouth open, for nearly a minute. Marsh Silas frowned, pushed the door open, and entered. He waved First Squad in after him. As Barlocke ushered the man and his family into their bedroom to collect their belongings, the squad tore the house apart. Scratch-built cupboards and bureaus were busted open. Chairs and stools were smashed against walls. What little cushioned furniture they owned was torn apart by knives and bayonets.

Going into a back room with his autopistol raised, Marsh Silas found a room with an altar in it. There were many prairie flowers scattered on the pedestal and floor. Standing on the top of the stone-carved stand was a small, golden figure of the God-Emperor.

It reminded him of the one he prayed to when he was on furlough in Kasr Sonnen. He smiled a little, knelt, and made the sign of the Aquila. Footsteps behind him made look over his shoulder. Barlocke sank to his knee as well.

"I think this answers the question," Marsh said.

"Quite," Barlocke replied, clasping his hands together briefly.

Father Kine and his menials collected the holy icons; they were very pleased by the family's piety. The middle-aged gentleman took his wife and two children towards the Chimeras. Hyram also sent a group of evacuees towards the Chimera. There, other priests began rigidly questioning them and extracting assurances they were loyal. None of the terrified squatters would be able to bypass their studious minds.

It was a repetitive process. They would knock, the door would open, and they would proceed to clear the house.

Marsh did not want to think the entire town was filled with loyalists. That would make it too easy and remembering the last urban battle, he knew they could be mixed in. But by the time they reached the final building on the left side, a two-story house with many windows and old firing ports, he was feeling calmer. As he was waiting for someone to answer the door, Hyram and Drummer Boy joined him.

"All is well?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Marsh could see the men he left behind on the opposite side of the road had not entered the compound adjacent to their position.

Hyram nodded and turned to the Junior Commissar standing beside Marsh.

"Not as exciting as you thought it would be?"

Carstensen just made a small grunt. Marsh could not help but look over at her. He could tell she was older than him by maybe four or five years, though she was still youthful. During the house clearing, her bun grew frayed, a few loose orange locks flowed with the breeze filtering through the village.

Carstensen looked at him.

"Knock again," she said before taking a few steps away, clearly impatient.

Marsh slammed the bottom of his fist against the wooden door harder.

"Open up, tis' the Holy Inquisition!"

"The Inquisition?" came a muffled voice, along with some footsteps.

"Yes, now open this damned door!"

"Ah yes, I'll open it."

The footsteps ceased.

"Sergeant, get away from the door!" he heard Carstensen scream. Just as he began to turn, she tackled him to the ground. A barrage of automatic fire tore through the door and showered the pair with splinters as they covered their heads. Everyone else scattered.

Carstensen was up first, ignoring her missing cap. Marsh Silas was on his back when she reached down and took his hand. She pulled him to his feet and handed him his M36 before drawing her Bolt pistol.

Barlocke, Hyram, and Drummer Boy were stacked up on the opposite side of the door. Autogun fire was still ripping through it. Carstensen stepped aside so Marsh Silas could go in front.

"Wait until he reloads!" Marsh Silas yelled. "Then we'll go in!"

Hyram looked around Barlocke.

"Throw a grenade before you go in! Let Carstensen go first," he said, and held up his fist. Hyram yelled past Barlocke.

"Yes, sir!" Marsh called, yanking one of the grenades from his lower webbing. He looked over his shoulder at the Junior Commissar. She activated her power fist and it soon glowed blue energy.

The autogun fire stopped. Marsh Silas pulled the pin but held the grip down. Sidling to the door and turned around, he stamped his foot as hard as he could against it. With a _snap_, it flung open. He let go of the grip and tossed the grenade in. Crouching back around the corner, it exploded a few seconds later. Like a breath of wind, Carstensen darted by him. Quickly, he followed her into the dust-filled house.

There were two dead heretics on the floor and one trying to get back up. Belting out a war cry, she raised her power fist and hit him across the jaw. Teeth, blood, and saliva flew out of his mouth as he was thrown back against the far wall. With swift precision, she pressed the barrel of the Bolt pistol against his sack-covered head and squeezed the trigger. The top of the heretic's head was blown up, slashing her robotic leg with blood and brains.

"Clear the other rooms, I'll cover the stairs," she ordered, aiming her weapon up at the second floor.

"Yes, ma'am!" Marsh said. Before he could move, he heard shooting from outside. Going back to the doorway, he saw fire erupting from the blockhouse at the end of the street. Guardsmen scattered in all directions, getting into cover behind compound walls, inside cleared houses, or in alleyways. "Get in, get in!"

He tapped Barlocke, Hyram, Drummer Boy, Honeycutt, Babcock, Holmwood, and on the backs as they entered. Falling in with Barlocke and Drummer Boy, they quickly cleared the side rooms while Hyram took the others into the kitchen. Both groups found no heretics.

They regrouped in the center again before stacking up with Carstensen. Marsh Silas was right behind her with Hyram in tow. With a flick of her hand, they traversed the stairs. Just as she poked her head around the corner, a burst of autogun fire made her recoil. Autogun slugs slammed into the wall adjacent from the group, showering them with tiny chunks of rockcrete.

Carstensen holstered her Bolt pistol and made a cycling motion between her and Marsh Silas. Then, she cupped her small hand into a ball, then mimicked pulling a pin from it, and throwing it around the corner. Marsh Silas nodded. Changing places, he took another grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin, cooked it for several seconds, then whipped it around the corner. Everybody ducked. The subsequent explosion sent a cloud of gray dust flowing out of the doorway and down the stairwell.

Raising his lasgun, Marsh stormed around the corner. In the dust, he saw three forms on the ground. One was not moving while the other two were trying to push themselves up. He descended with the bayonet, shoving it right into the back of the heretic's throat. Carstensen finished off the other wounded heretic and put a Bolt into the immobilized one.

Everyone opened the windows or crouched at a firing port and began pouring fire against the blockhouse. Slugs hammered the walls around the windows, forcing them to crouch, pop up, fire, and duck again. Gold, blue, and red lasbolts were struck the block house.

Barlocke was beside Marsh.

"Aren't you glad we brought the Junior Commissar?" he asked in a ragged, but still jovial tone as he cycled his lasgun.

"Yes, you're so smart," Marsh said before turning over to face Hyram. "How are we going to take it out?" he asked as they cycled their charge packs. The lieutenant chewed his lips and briefly glanced over the edge of the window.

"Second and Third Platoon won't be able to flank it, there's no cover. We can't move from this side, that's too much of a gauntlet. A smoke grenade might give us the edge."

"Ah, maybe sir," Marsh said, then briefly stood up and fired half a dozen times at the block house. "But those are Heavy Stubbers they've got in there, at least three if my ears don't deceive me!"

"Dammit, you're right. We have to move on it!" Hyram gritted his teeth. Marsh held up his hand.

"Stay calm, stay focused, sir. What can we do? What and who do we have at our disposal? Breathe, focus on the present!"

Hyram seemed to think for a movement as he mouthed a few words to himself. Marsh could not hear him over all the laser and gunfire. Suddenly, the officer's face lit up. He got up and went to a window overlooking the street they were on before.

"If we can get some of our men into that compound, they can use explosives to blow through the houses until they get to the block house!"

"We need a base of fire first!"

"We'll move the Heavy Weapons Squad to our position!" Hyram pointed out the window down the street. "The Leman Russ will provide fire support and cover while they advance. Drummer Boy!"

Hyram took the handheld wired to the Vox-set on the Boy's back. He relayed his instructions to the tank commander as well as Sergeants Walmsley Major and Mottershead. Marsh returned to the fight but it was not long before he heard a rumbling engine and the clatter of tank treads. Going back to the side window, he watched as the Heavy Weapons Squads along with Second Squad slowly followed the tank. The hull-mounted and sponson Heavy Bolters were all firing relentlessly against the block house. When the Leman Russ tank stopped beside their house, he watched as Second Squad darted into the opposite compound. Yoxhall and Tatum, who was carrying the Heavy Flamer, were with them. They began blowing through the walls of the compound and

Walmsley's Major and Minor were up first, setting up their Heavy Bolter in the window. The other team, Albert and Brownlow, propped up their weapon in the window beside them. Hefting the Autocannon onto the sill, Sudworth and Lowe began firing as well. A missile soared out from the bottom window, followed by a huge, red laser beam. Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher had also put up their weapons.

Over the Vox, Hyram ordered the Leman Russ to fire. The main gun went off, deafening Marsh and the others briefly. When the ringing subsided, he watched chunks of rockcrete fall to Cadia and a dust cloud envelope the block house. But the Heavy Stubbers resumed firing.

Hyram took Marsh Silas by the shoulder. "Take First Squad across the street, link up with Second!"

"Got it, sir!"

Marsh ordered Holmwood and his men to follow. As they pounded down the stairs, he noticed Carstensen was with them too. They went to the door and paused. Marsh peeked out, waited until another barrage of heavy fire struck the block house, and then sprinted across the street. In one huge mass, while heavy slugs flew over their heads and peppered the road, they held onto their helmets and darted through the compound gates.

With Holmwood on his left and the Junior Commissar on his right, Marsh led First Squad through the breach in the wall and then through the big hole in the next house. As they traversed the rubble, they found dozens of dead heretics.

When they linked up with Second Squad in the last house before their target, they found the wall leading out to the short stretch of land between the two buildings was already blown out.

"Smoke grenades!" Marsh ordered. Several Guardsmen primed the canister, scrambled to the breach, and lobbed them at the block house. Immediately retreating, they escaped a prolonged burst of Heavy Stubber fire. At the same time, the Leman Russ tank fired its main cannon again. The shock shook the house they were in.

Looking out through the breach, he saw thick white smoke engulf the block house. The firing died down. "Yoxhall, Tatum with me! Advance!"

"Let's go First Squad!" cried Holmwood.

"For the Emperor! Charge!" Mottershead screamed.

"For Emperor and Imperium!" Carstensen hollered, throwing her armoured fist into the air.

The two squads sprinted across the open stretch of ground, dashed through the smoke, and practically collided with the side of the block house. Sliding along the wall, Marsh Silas eventually came to a reinforced door at the corner. Turning, he made a signal to Yoxhall. The demolitions expert planted a breaching charge on the door. Everyone backed off and looked away as he detonated the charge. Dust flew everywhere as the metal door flew off its hinges.

Corporal Foley and Logue, armed with a heavy double-barreled shotgun and autopistol, were in first. Marsh followed Carstensen in. Inside, Foley dropped a man with a shotgun blast; the shell tore open his stomach. Logue riddled a heretic trying to run up a stairwell with half a magazine. Bloodied and crumpled, the heretic slid down the steps.

Carstensen charged a heretic that was just coming through the door. Armed with an extended fighting knife, the enemy swung. Nimbly ducking, Carstensen turned and hit the heretic's knee with her power first. The bone snapped loudly, the muscle in his calf exploded, and the entire leg turned halfway around. Screaming, the heretic fell over on his side. The Junior Commissar finished him off with a Bolt shell. Four heretics came running out of the doorway perpendicular to the staircase on the right. Crouching, Marsh raised his lasgun and squeezed off two dozen lasbolts. Bloody, seared flesh, and severed limbs fell everywhere.

"First Squad, clear the first floor. Tatum, with me, up the stairs," Marsh said, pointing with the flat of his hand. Eagerly, the specialist trotted up the stairs while First Squad began throwing fragmentation grenades into each of the adjoining rooms.

Coming to the top of the stairs, Marsh found an open doorway on the right. Pointing again, he stepped back as Tatum took his place. Sticking the nozzle past the edge of the door, he squeezed the triggers. A bright orange-red glow emanated from within the room. Smoke streamed out as did licks of flame. All the oxygen was sucked up into the heat and created a deafening noise. It was only after the trooper relented and the flames settled did he hear all the screaming.

After waiting for the flames to die down, he second Second Squad onto the second floor. From above and below came cries of, 'all clear!'

Panting, Marsh Silas left the building with Junior Commissar Carstensen. On the street, they greeted Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram. When Marsh saw the officer's happy grin, he could not help but smile himself.

"Good work, sir," he said.

"Thank you, Staff...Marsh Silas," Hyram replied with a nod. He smiled to himself and looked down at his boots. When he looked back up, he shrugged a little. "A long way to go."

"A long way, indeed," Barlocke said. "We'll be out here for a long while and I assure you, there will be plenty of opportunities to prove yourselves. Are you ready?"

Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen each exchanged a glance before looking at the Inquisitor.

"We're ready."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,998


	17. Part III: Chapter 17

Part 3: Chapter 17

* * *

The 1333rd Cadian Regiment swept across the countryside like a terrific windstorm. Within sight of each other, the three companies marched across the snowy prairies, dipped into crags, and clawed over ridges. As the troopers spread out, like the tendrils of a tentacled beast, there would be action somewhere along the line. Heretics caught in the open were wiped out by accurate lasgun fire. Ambushes were thwarted, overrun, and destroyed. Caves and tunnels discovered in the rock formations were blown out with grenades, demolition charges, and Flamers. Massive columns of thick, black smoke rising from burned out, blasted holes, were left in the wake of the Shock Troopers. Weapon caches were discovered in the ground or hidden in ravines. Explosives were planted and dropped, cries of 'fire in the hole,' rang out, and columns of brown earth and red fire flew skywards.

In daylight, they appeared as silhouettes with long shadows; at night, they were invisible and silent. Day after day, night after night, the regiment marched on. Instead of a slogging, struggling pace, they moved with zealousness, determination, and eagerness. Shoulders hunched, heads forward, eyes peering, they scoured and scorched the land. Vegetation was set alight to deny cover for the enemy. Thickets were felled and burned along with scrub grass.

Upon reaching one of the towns, one unit would surround it and another would storm it. Houses were torn apart; wooden, scratch-built cupboards, cases, shelves, and bureaus were smashed with sledgehammers. Contents were viciously sifted through and scrutinized by officers and priests. What few cushioned pieces of furniture the squatters possessed were ripped open by combat knives and bayonets. Holy icons were collected, catalogued, and stored by Adeptus Ministorum menials. Inhabitants, made up mostly of adults, were escorted out of their arms. Baggage they carried was seized and opened. Contents were dumped on the ground and checked by the proper authorities.

Once their belongings were checked, the evacuees were subject to a rigorous examination by the priests. When did they last pray to the Emperor? How many times a day did they pray? What brought them out of the Kasrs to live in isolation; perhaps, they wished to live outside of the God-Emperor's light? Were they willing to return to life in the Kasr𑁋they would have to atone for their absence through good works in the factorum or as an auxiliary. Did they happen to hear any voices in their heads? Why had they not donned any of their holy iconography, such as prayer beads and chains featuring the Gothic cross or the Imperial Aquila? Were they happy to see the Cadian Shock Troopers acting in their defense?

Any who refused, acted in a suspicious manner, or were discovered to be in possession of heretical paraphernalia such as Stars of Chaos or marks of the Dark Gods, were lined up against the nearest wall and executed by firing squad. It was upon their discovery the demented, misguided, insane horrors of corruption became apparent to the eyes of the Cadians. Teeth were bared like fangs, eyes became clouded with darkness, and they began to speak in strange tongues or snarl like beasts. Those who resisted were gunned down by lasguns and Bolt shells. Some attempted to escape, but were neutralized before they could even exit the towns. For those who passed the examinations, they were evacuated by Chimeras if traversable roadways were available; if not, Valkyries were called in to extract them.

With utmost caution, priests disposed of the Chaos relics. Other, less dangerous contents deemed heretical were burned with any belongings the evacuees did not bring with them. If there were decent crops planted, the Guardsmen took what they could to eat or sent it back for Kasr Sonnnen's food stores. If they came across fields with crops not ready for harvest or were faring poorly, they burned them. Once cleared, demolition experts wired the towns with explosives. When the plunger was pushed down, the ramshackle buildings would disappear into a gray-brown cloud of destroyed rockcrete and churned earth. Great swathes of soil were ripped apart. Structures crumbled, others outright exploded into pieces.

Heretics did their best to resist. In some villages, the entire population was hostile. Streets become corridors fraught with autogun fire and second-rate lasgun bolts. At first, they put up stubborn defenses culminating into a last stand in the strongest, tallest, biggest building in the village. As days folded into weeks, the heretics grew smarter. Grenade bouquets hung on doorway trimming or at the tops of staircases. Tripwires were strung up in nearly every alleyway. Kill zones subject to deadly Heavy Stubber crossfire were established.

But nothing seemed to stop the 1333rd Cadian Regiment and least of all, Bloody Platoon. Crawling on all fours and with a pair of wire cutters, Arnold Yoxhall snipped every tripwire. Walmsley's Major and Minor, along with the Heavy Weapons troopers, braved terrible fire to entrench in opposite positions and suppress enemy emplacements. Lieutenant Hyram and Marsh Silas led the troops in flanking maneuvers and house-to-house fighting. Junior Commissar Carstensen continued to fight and urge the Guardsmen forward. And when the heretics were driven into their last bastion and proved to be too difficult to root out, Drummer Boy called in artillery or air support. Whether it was from a barrage of Earthshaker rounds or from a rocket barrage from one of the 3rd Tactical Wing's Valkyries, the building was always reduced to a pile of rubble.

Upon the corpses of heretics or the ruins of a village, Babcock would raise the standard. A great cheer would ring out across the platoon, reciprocated by the company, and even over the plains, the rest of the regiment raised their voices.

Village after village, town after town, battle after battle, Bloody Platoon continued to fight.

"Move it, move it, get your asses in there!" Marsh Silas ordered, motioning with the flat of his hand into the inside of the village. "Maintain your intervals, check your corners!"

Bloody Platoon moved down the street. The Guardsmen were all bent over, nearly jogging at a crouch. Some had their weapons raised; others held them with both hands or carried them by one hand. Second Platoon moved in before them and they devastated the area before calling for reinforcements. Blasted rockcrete houses smoked from missiles, grenades, and explosive charges. Dead heretics lay in pools of blood on the dirt road, hung out of windows, or lay in doorways. Bodies bore laser burns or puncture wounds from where the lasbolt punched through their flesh. Many were missing limbs at the joint or were headless. Second Platoon contained many able marksmen.

Stray autogun rounds ricocheted up and down alleyways. Each time a slug _snapped_ by, everyone duck and kept moving.

Marsh Silas had the butt of his lastbolt pressed into his shoulder as he moved, ready to raise it a moment's notice. Just as he looked to the right side of the road, he heard a scream. Pivoting towards the left, he saw a heretic charging at him with a machete. Before he could even aim, a red lasbolt struck the heretic center mass. Flesh burned and exploded, sending the enemy combatant flat on his back. Drummer Boy trotted passed; the Voxman raised his left fist outward to the side and smiled. Nodding, Marsh returned the gesture.

As they came to the last building on the corner, the men in front raised their fists to signal a halt. Immediately, everyone stopped and crouched. After pausing for a moment, Marsh was back on his feet and went up to one of the pointmen. Derryhouse, Bullard's spotter, was stacked on the corner. His plasma gun was humming and coursing with purple-blue energy.

Marsh crouched beside him. "What have you got for me?"

"Unknown's in the far buildings. I can't tell if those be Shock Troopers or heretics."

Waving him back, Marsh took his place at the corner. Letting his lasgun hang by the strap, he pressed his hands against the wall and nearly flattened his front against it. Sliding to the right, he peered around the corner with one eye.

The dirt road led to a square with buildings on each side. In the center, he could see several bodies. One seemed to be moving. Red, blue, and golden lasbolts flew from the windows and old firing ports in the buildings directly across from them.

Ducking back behind cover, he turned around. First, he pointed at Drummer Boy and waved him over, then repeated the gesture with Hyram. The lieutenant was in the center of the column with Carstensen. When he came running over, she came with him. The platoon sergeant explained the situation, motioning with his hand.

Drummer Boy radioed Second Platoon then handed the Vox-handheld to Hyram.

"Second Platoon, Bloody Platoon here," the lieutenant said, "we're ready to move in from the street running parallel to the square. State your location, over."

"Bloody, Second," came Lieutenant Comstock's voice. "We're on the far side of the square directly across from your position. We have a heavily entrenched heretic position to our right, your left, in a block house with a forward bunker. There's at least two Heavy Stubbers in there! Over!"

"Roger that, Second." Hyram handed the Vox-handheld back to Drummer Boy then motioned for the sergeants to come over. "Right, Second Platoon is pinned down in the buildings directly across from us. The heretics have taken a good position perpendicular to Second Platoon. We're going to take up positions in the houses overlooking the square along here𑁋" he motioned along the buildings Bloody Platoon current crouched alongside, "𑁋and here." Pointing around the corner, he indicated the houses across from the enemy position.

Hyram then motioned for Marsh to come up a little further from the others. They looked around the corner. "I want to put the Heavy Weapons Squads directly across from the heretics for a clear field of fire and to establish fire superiority. But I don't want them to move too much; perhaps it would be better to put them along these buildings here?" Hyram whispered.

"You can't second-guess yourself, sir," Marsh Silas said. "Not out here, not now."

_Ooh, well said. Tell him that his first instinct is often the best one, too. _Barlocke's voice drifted through his mind, steady and cold. Still getting used to it, Marsh Silas shivered. It was like having lukewarm water gently poured down the center of his back. Despite its subtle warmth, it still made him shiver. Glancing over his shoulders, he glared at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was crouched a few paces behind him, holding his odd lasgun. Nonchalantly, he smirked and nodded.

Turning forward again, he tapped Hyram on his shoulder pauldron. "Your first instinct is often the best one, sir."

Hyram looked at him, then smiled.

"Thank you, sergeant." He turned around. "Walmsley Major, take the Heavy Weapons Squads to the houses directly across from the enemy position. Third Squad will go with you as added security. Move _behind _the buildings for cover."

The Heavy Bolter gunner nodded and took off with the other troopers. Hyram turned around. "First, Second, Special Weapons, take positions in these houses! Move!"

Marsh was right behind the lieutenant as they stormed through the open doorway of the corner house. Checking corners and stepping over dead heretics, they went to the windows on the opposite side. Crouching beside an open doorway, the platoon sergeant could see the entire square.

There were more than just a few bodies. Dead heretics littered the ground as well as dead civilians who bore no signs of corruption. Not too far from the mouth of the square, he could see five dead Shock Troopers belonging to Second Platoon. A sixth was writhing on the ground, holding his thigh. Most distinctively about him was his bright white teeth, which were bared and clenched.

"Suppressive fire!" Lieutenant Hyram shouted. "Maintain fire superiority, draw their attention as best you can!"

Marsh Silas was still looking at the wounded Guardsman. Autogun slugs were peppering the dirt all around him, throwing clumps of it into the air and onto his clothing. His entire left leg was red with blood.

_You can't do anything for him. _Barlocke's voice seemed to have crawled up his neck and grasped both ears. Squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh wanted to shake it off.

"You don't know that," he said through gritted teeth. He looked up at Barlocke, who was standing on the opposite side of the door firing his lasgun. When the Inquisitor ducked back to cycle the charge back, he gazed grimly at him. _If you go out there, you'll die yourself. Stay in cover. _Marsh shook his head, trying to rid the prickling sensation of Barlocke's voice in his eardrums.

Suddenly, Honeycutt was beside him. Before Marsh could even think, his hands shot out and grasped the medic's webbing. With all his might, he pulled him back. His effort was so great they both fell backwards.

"The fuck do you think you're doing!?" Honeycutt shouted, as they tried to get off each other. "That man's dying out there! If he doesn't get a tourniquet in the next minute he'll bleed out!"

"And what happens if you get hit? We don't know how ta' fucking fix ya!" Marsh shouted, struggling to stand back up.

"Sergeant Holmwood, flank the enemy position with First Squad and the Special Weapons Squad!" Hyram screamed over the lasgun fire.

Everyone turned to look at him in that brief moment, except Marsh Silas. The wounded Guardsman suddenly screamed; it was long and shrill, not of pain but of terror. It pierced his soul as a bullet would his flesh.

At that moment, he couldn't hear the gunfire anymore or the shouting of his comrades. All he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat and ragged, heavy breathing. Dropping his lasgun and unclipping his sword belt, he launched from the doorway. Everything seemed to resume its normal speed as he dashed to the wounded Guardsman.

"Silvanus!"

"Staff Sergeant, no!"

"Remember to stop the bleeding!"

Heavy Stubber fire cracked by him and autogun slugs flew through his battle-dress trousers. Rounds glanced off his shoulder pauldrons and greaves. He was moving so fast he had to slide up next to the casualty to stop.

Reaching into his satchel, he sifted through the items within, knowing there were a few parts of a basic Field Chirurgeon's kit inside. Finally, he found it: the tourniquet. Quickly, he wrapped it above the thigh wound and tied it off in one motion. The cord went _thwip! _The Guardsman screamed and clutched his leg.

That's when Marsh Silas felt something hit his helmet. It was as if somebody clubbed him over the head. Falling over, his ears rang and he could hear his own breathing again. As he struggled to get up, something hard hit him in his flak armour, sending him back down on his back. In that same instant, he was twisted by an impact right on his shoulder pauldron. Although the armour deflected the bullets, the shock of each hit was not absorbed. Muscles and bones rocked with the concussion of the rounds, coursing and reverberting in his flesh. Hissing through his teeth and with barely any air in his legs, he tried to get up.

All he was able to do was roll over. He was laying face down in the dirt and he heard peculiar sounds. Bullets whizzed over his head but it seemed every few moments there was a _swip_ sound. When it happened for a sixth time, he noticed a bolt of cloth fall by his face.

Marsh realized the bullets were so close to him, they were shooting through his rucksack. Turning back on his side, he grabbed the straps of the wounded Guardsman, who was still gripping his leg. As he did, an autogun bullet struck Marsh Silas in the left bicep. He did not feel it, he saw it. A hole appeared in the heavy material of his jacket, blackening some of the sleeve around it. Immediately, the area turned red and he felt a wet sensation around his arm. A moment later, he watched a bullet hit the ground less than a meter away from him and ricochet right into the back of his calf. Again, he felt nothing and saw the tiny hole turn red. Bullets pinged off his greaves.

With a great tug, he brought the wounded man parallel with him so they were face-to-face. "What's your name, trooper!?"

"Guardsman Alban Castle, sir!"

"Well, Castle," Marsh said with a smile, "we gotta get outta here or we're gonna die, aren't we!?"

"Yes, sir!"

Staying as low as he could, Marsh began dragging Castle towards the Heavy Weapons Squads' position. It was about twelve meters away, but it took all of his effort in the immensely awkward position to drag Castle. The platoon sergeant would have to slither forward a little, turn, clutch Castle's webbing, then pull him even with himself in one effort. Each time they completed a maneuver, they only moved half a meter or less. Occasionally, Marsh would have to stop as the bullets fell around him with greater intensity. As he did, he would gaze back at his original position; Barlocke was in the doorway, shooting at the enemy building. Honeycutt was trying to scramble out but Junior Commissar Carstensen was holding him back by his collar while she fired her Bolt Pistol. Lieutenant Hyram appeared in the window, firing, casting looks his way and shouting incoherently.

Getting closer, he could see the faces of the gunners in the windows, see the muzzle flash of their weapons, and hear the blowback from the weapons. Hot, red streams poured from the lascannon, the autocannon fired shells with a steady _bang-bang-bang_, and the Heavy Bolters continued to spew rounds downrange with a sound akin to a long metallic chain being dragged quickly across the hard ground.

Marsh could see the open doorway. It seemed so far, even as he neared to it. Just as he made another effort, he heard one of the Heavy Bolters cease firing. A moment later, the two brothers, Walmsley's Major and Minor, ran out. Major grabbed Marsh Silas under his armpits and dragged him inside. Minor took Castle in the same manner.

Inside the house, they were seated side by side under the window.

"Wasn't the first lesson you ever taught us was not to do anythin' stupid, Marsh Silas?" Walmsley Major said, grabbing his forearms.

"The second was don't stop firing until you're told, get back on the bloody gun!" Marsh shouted back. Walmsley Major just laughed as he returned to his firing position. Sergeant Queshire arrived in short order with his Field Chirurgeon, Walcott. Marsh gestured to Castle and said, "take care of him first."

Queshire wore a worried expression but did not speak. All he did was put a hand on Marsh's shoulder, close to his neck. The pair watched as Walcott checked the tourniquet then took out a pair of scissors. He used it to cut away a section of Castle's bloody trousers. The hair on his thigh was mattered with thick red blood. Using a stark white cloth, Walcott wiped it away until there was only a slight red hue left on the skin. From his medkit, he opened a small, palm-sized package which contained a sanizatation pad. He wiped the skin down, threw the pad away, and pulled out an injector filled with pain medication.

Marsh noticed Castle's hand laying on the ground, limply. Without a second thought, he took it and squeezed. The Guardsman nodded stiffly; his hand was shaking.

"One, two, three," Walcott counted off, then brought the needle down. He hit the thumb-sized plunger and drained the syringe into Castle's leg. Immediately, the Guardsman sighed in relief and tilted his head back. "Count the God-Emperor's blessings it didn't hit your artery," Walcott said, waving a finger in Castle's face.

He pulled out a pair of forceps. "Light."

Marsh had to wrest his hand from Castle's. He reached into his satchel and pulled out his lamp pack. Activating it, he held it in his hand and over the wound. Walcott examined the wound itself. "It's deep, but I can get it. Are you ready?"

"The Emperor protects," Castle breathed, "yes, I am."

Walcott began to carefully maneuver the forceps in the wound. Castle clenched his teeth and sucked in air. The platoon sergeant began to reach over with his other hand.

"Breathe lad, breathe𑁋" Marsh groaned as dull pain coursed up and down his arm. Handing the lamp pack to Queshire and retracting his arm, he grabbed the wound and looked down at it. Blood slowly seeped from it.

"Sergeant, I have a tourniquet in my medkit," Walcott said, his voice thick with concentration as he continued to probe for the autogun slug. Queshire dug into the bag and retrieved the cord. He tied it off further up Marsh's arm; when he tied it off, pain surged down his arm. Gritting his teeth, he kicked his leg out briefly then smacked the back of his helmet against the wall.

"Fuck me," he eventually moaned.

_Silvanus, speak to me, are you well?_

Barlocke's voice came like a chill, but it was pleasant this time. From the exertion and pain, he was overheated and sweating.

"Yes, yes, I'm alright."

"I know ya are, ya tough ol' bastard," Queshire said in a cavalier tone.

_And you think you lack bravery. Or, you have a certain reservoir of stupidity._

It was hard not to chuckle.

A fleshy sound followed by Castle's sharp cry made him look over. Walcott held his bloody forceps up. Clenched between the prongs was a mangled, black bullet. He let go and the bullet fell with a _clink _on the floor. Taking another cloth, his canteen, and another sanitization kit, he handed everything to Queshire.

"Clean that."

As the Field Chirurgeon sealed the wound with a field suture, Marsh flinched as he heard a series of explosions. Propping himself up with his good arm, he looked through the window. Smoke and dust was rising from many of the windows and firing ports of the enemy structure. All firing ceased. He could see elements of First Squad and some of the weapons specialists moving in on it. Suddenly, a heretic wearing a sack hood burst out of the front door. Derryhouse immediately crouched, raised his plasma gun, and squeezed the trigger. A white-blue bolt soared from the barrel and struck the heretic square in the back. Flesh ripped, melted, or tore off; clothing burned and fused with it all. Bones were stripped or broken by the impact. But the heretic shambled on, a burned, broken, torn being that wailed like a beast. When the second plasma bolt hit him, he simply fell apart; his limbs and trunk lay in a red smear on the dirt.

"All clear!" the spotter called.

Sitting back down, Marsh let out a sigh of relief. Looking over, he saw that Walcott finished with Castle's wound.

When he looked forward, he saw Honeycutt running in. He crouched in front of him and he grabbed his shoulders.

"Well done!" the old medic said, smiling proudly. "I've got him Walcott," he assured him and began examining the wound. "Ah, the Emperor protects _indeed_. Clean, in and out. Just a matter of suturing."

"Calf," Walcott said, pointing over his other arm as he tucked his equipment away. Honeycutt looked down.

"It's just under the surface, in the fleshy part. Extract it while I seal this wound."

"Don't cut my pant leg," Marsh said to Walcott, "we just got these."

"Aye, Marsh Silas."

As Walcott rolled up his pant leg, Honeycutt took off his flak armour, jacket, and overshirt. Rolling up his sleeve, he began to use a needle and thread to sew his arm up, Lieutenant Hyram came in. He crouched beside Marsh and smiled a little.

"Look at that, sir," the medic said, handing Marsh's helmet to him, "got shot in the head."

Hyram turned it around in his hands. There was a small, gray indent from where the bullet struck, and a cut towards the back caused when it bounced away.

"Quite the mark."

"Flak armour's good for something, it seems," Marsh replied cynically.

"That was very brave," Hyram said, "although, next time, wait for my command. I don't think impulsiveness will serve us too well out here."

At this, he let out a shaky breath and smiled. Marsh found himself smiling too.

"Got it, sir."

Carstensen was in next, bending over the lieutenant. She scrutinized the wound for a moment. When she stood up straight, the Junior Commissar only nodded. Marsh pursed his lips, did the same, and gave a quick salute with his good arm. Lieutenant Comstock came in and checked on his wounded man, then thumped Marsh Silas on his shoulder pauldron.

"Thank the Emperor you were there," was all the officer said.

All Marsh could do was nod. As Honeycutt finished sewing the wound and gave him an injection of moderate pain medication, he laughed at himself and wondered when Barlocke would come see him.

_I know you're alright, Silvanus. _

"Hey, the regimental photographer is here," Queshire said. "Let's get a pict-capture with the big hero!"

###

Under normal circumstances, Marsh Silas would be evacuated back to Army's Meadow for further medical treatment. But, he asked for permission to stay. While Hyram was hesitant to let him, Inquisitor Barlocke allowed him to stay.

As the village was destroyed with explosives, First Company waited about two hundred meters away. Situated in a nearby field, they awaited a resupply run. Eventually, a pair of Valkyrie's came over head; bundles of large crates were suspended from the winches. Each was lowered onto the ground, the winch was detached, and the supplies were handed out. Two weeks in the field and many kilometers away from their base of operations, they relied on air support to bring them ammunition, medicine, rations, and other basic supplies.

As the sergeants oversaw the distribution of supplies, Marsh Silas was back in his armour and was walking with Lieutenant Hyram.

"Are you sure you don't want to take some weight off of it?" Hyram asked, pointing at his wounded calf.

"Honeycutt gave me some pain meds and combat stims, I don't feel much pain. Gotta move it a little, lest it gets stiff. Stiff is the last thing you want in a fight," Marsh explained as he walked beside him, shifting his sword belt with one hand and carrying his lasgun with the other. "I've been wounded before. Autogun slugs mainly, like these ones. Shrapnel's almost done me in a number of times."

"The Emperor protects," Hyram replied.

"Yes, sir, He does."

"This was one of the last targets. We've denied the heretics nearly everything they could use out here."

"Yes, sir." They didn't speak for a few moments, wandering aimlessly on the periphery of their unit. Marsh cleared his throat. "You're improving. Thinking faster on your feet, getting a better read of the battlefield."

"Long way to go; I'm no Overton."

"Well, I ain't quite sure any o' us could ever fill his boots. Overton was a Guardsman's Guardsman, Cadian through-and-through. He was the son of a noble officer who went to a fancy academy, but Good Ol' Overton? He was a bummer Whiteshield in the Youth Army, just like the rest o' us. He didn't get his commission by purchase or inspection; it was a battlefield promotion. That's somethin' out here. He dug trenches with us, ate with us, slept in a bag like us, and he kept us outta bad fights."

Hyram nodded, taking it all in.

"He put you all first."

"Well, for the most part. Being a leader is right-tricky, sir. If you get shot at, first thing you gotta do is dive for cover like everyone else. The difference between you and those gun men, when you pick your face back outta the dirt, you gotta start giving orders. Their job is to do what you tell'em. I reckon if you can keep doin' that, you'll manage just fine."

"It can't just be on the battlefield, though." Hyram looked over his shoulder and gazed at the men. Junior Commissar Carstensen was assisting the sergeants as they distributed supplies. Shock Troopers not assigned to the perimeter were resting in bunches. Some drank from their canteens, opened rations, prayed together, napped, or checked their wargear.

When he looked back, he sighed. "Respect among Cadians is difficult to ascertain, Marsh Silas. Just because you are born Cadian, does not put you in league with the soldiers and heroes of old. You have to _earn _it through action. And look at me; all of my battle sense atrophied behind a desk for nearly two standard decades. How can I ever expect them to follow me beyond my rank?"

"Fair question," Marsh said, nodding his head. "But it ain't always about the medals pinned to your chest. It's more an' that. You gotta talk to the men, see what they're about."

"Oh, how could I ever talk to such veterans?"

"Ask'em which Kasr they were born in. Make sure they got everything they need; food, water, ammunition, wargear, anything. If they ain't got it, get it; but don't make it an act, do it because you want to. If they be on a work detail, pick up a nine-seventy and pitch in. When they've done a good job, tell'em you're proud of'em." Marsh smiled, then. "When Overton promoted me to staff sergeant he said, 'Sy, leadership isn't just about how good you are in a fight. What really counts is what you do when we ain't fighting,' and, although I ain't one for thinkin', methinks he was damned right. By the God-Emperor, I miss that man."

"Hopefully, he is well," Hyram said, "I think I might try talking to them now...do you see that?"

Marsh followed Hyram's finger and looked up at the bluff that overlooked the field. He was surprised to see an old rockcrete pillbox sitting on the flat top. Like all structures they came across, it was ancient and in disrepair. The left corner was crumbling and a poorly constructed wooden door replaced whatever bulkhead originally withstood the elements. But a thin, pale column of smoke was rising from the top.

"Must be a heretic," Marsh said. He tried to raise his left arm to hold his lasgun with both hands, but the pain made him lower it. Instead, he shouldered the strap of his weapon and drew his autopistol.

"Why would a heretic give away their position like that?" Hyram asked.

"Because he's a fucking heretic," Marsh spat, "I dare not imagine what goes through their mangled minds."

"Shall we investigate?"

"I'm with you, sir."

Hyram activated his helmet-embedded micro-bead. After informing Drummer Boy to stay close to his Vox-caster and asking Junior Commissar Carstensen to take command in his absence, the pair trundled up the hill.

It was a gradual slope which made it easier to traverse. But by the time they were nearing the snowy top, Marsh was panting and was reallying feeling the pain in his leg. After taking a moment to bend over and catch his breath, Hyram waited for him. When he was finally ready again, Hyram looped his arm around Marsh's and they reached the top together.

Once at the top, they were only several meters away from the gray pillbox. The smoke was not actually coming from the top of the structure but from a little fire pit in front of it. Their angle from below masked the pit. The flames were still crackling and snapping, and it appeared that a vermin on a spit was being roasted.

Both crouched down and raised their weapons. Marsh was about to give a hand signal to approach, but Hyram indicated with both hands they would advance together and stack up on either side of the door.

At a quick pace and keeping their weapons trained on the door, they approached the pillbox. Marsh took the left and Hyram was on the right. They reached the walls at the same and pressed up against it.

Marsh raised his fist and pretended to pull a pin from it, indicating a fragmentation grenade. Hyram raised his hand to show 'all stop,' then tapped his helmet with his fist. It was the signal for breach.

Holding up three fingers, he mouthed the count and lowered each one in sequence. When he made a fist, Marsh kicked the door off its hinges and stormed in with his autopistol.

A little form fell away from him. It balled up on top of an old mattress and blanket. "Don't move!" Marsh Silas shouted.

"Hands up!" Hyram yelled beside him.

The shaking form slowly turned and raised both hands. Both Guardsmen were surprised to see a little boy with a crop of blonde hair, little brown freckles across the bridge of his nose, and bright but scared violet eyes. Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Hyram immediately lowered his weapon. "By the Emperor, it's just a child." Before he could take two steps, Marsh caught him by the shoulder.

"Remember what happened?"

Hyram despaired for a moment, then nodded.

"Boy, are you well? Do you...hear anything in your head?"

Sniffling, the boy stood up.

"No, sir. You look like soldiers my mama told me about," he sniffed. "She told me if I was ever in trouble, I should pray to the Emperor for the soldiers to come. I've been praying for a long time."

Hyram looked at Marsh and beamed with a smile. Marsh, relieved, nodded. The platoon sergeant began checking the rest of the interior while Hyram knelt in front of him.

"Are you alright, my lad? Are you hurt?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, you know your 'yes, sir's,' and, 'no sir's,' like a proper Cadian. Fear not, we're here to help you."

"Have you seen my mama?"

"We've met a number of mama's recently. I'm not sure which is yours. What's your name, laddy?"

"Galo."

Marsh turned over a few old crates and found some basic survival packages in there. They were Imperial-grade kits, although from an older class when he was in the Youth Army. From the way the bags were opened and some of the contents were missing, he could tell they were used recently. There were food packets on the ground as well as used firestarters.

After clearing it, he joined Hyram and the boy. When he smiled at him, he noticed a tiny scar on his chin.

"Is your mama's name Asiah?"

"Yes!" the boy exclaimed tearfully. "Have you seen her?"

"It's been a few days, but last I saw her, she was back at our base."

Little Galo, dressed only in a pair of pants one size too large and a scratchy hooded sweatshirt, burst into tears and ran into Marsh Silas's chest. He hugged him with his tiny arms.

Marsh blinked a little, then put his good arm around him. "There, there, lad," he whispered.

He was in disbelief; he thought the boy was taken somewhere else, was killed in the fighting, or simply disappeared into the hinterland. Despite everything, despite all the dangers of heretics and corruption, here he was, pure and safe. But as the boy wept against his chest, the shock passed and he felt a strange presence: a happiness he never knew before.

Looking over at Hyram, he saw a very contented expression on the officer's face. At that moment, he must have been thinking about his own son. Such memories would be both heartwarming and heartbreaking; reminders of times simpler and happy, and that such times were long ago and far away.

"Oh lad, you be shakin' firecly," Marsh said. With a grunt of exertion, he wrapped his arm tightly around the boy and picked him up. "Let's warm you by the fire and get some food in yer belly."

The pair took him outside and plopped the boy down by the fire. Marsh took off his rucksack, carefully minding his wounded arm, and pulled out a ration. He also grabbed the blanket that was clipped to the top of the pack. When he looked over, he found Hyram on his knees in front of the boy. As he put his own helmet on Galo's head, he talked with him kindly.

At that moment, Marsh was glad to have him there. He was not exactly sure how to talk to children; he never was around them much after his brief life on Macharia. As he draped the blanket around the boy's shoulder and unpackaged the ration, he was sure his own crooked smile would have scared the lad.

Marsh handed him the ration. It was only a part of a full one; it was an after-meal type that contained some chocolate.

"Have you ever had anything like that?" Hyram asked. Galo took a bit and his eyes lit up.

"It's so good!"

"Hm, I bet!" Hyram laughed with him. Marsh just smiled and sat beside the boy, looking at the fire. Hyram activated his micro-bead, "Bloody Platoon, regroup on the bluff. We've got a surprise for you. Over."

"Roger, sir. Over."

Hyram turned his attention back to Galo.

"Are you looking forward to riding in a Valkyrie?"

"What's a Valkyrie?"

"Your mother really didn't tell you _that _much about us, did she?"

Marsh snorted.

"Well, there's still time to make a Cadian of you yet, too," he said to Galo. The boy didn't seem to understand but he smiled affably all the same. His cheerful expression was heartening to Marsh.

Hyram was about to speak but he paused. At first, Marsh didn't think anything of it. But when he saw the alert expression on the officer's face, he looked over his shoulder.

A figure in a bone-white long-jacket with a hood, black boots, shoulder pauldrons, gloves, and a facemask with yellow slits for eyes, stood at the corner of the pillbox. Under one hand, they held several dead vermin by the tail. In the other was a strange looking weapon; its barrel was thin in the center but wider at the ends, the enlarged muzzle possessed an overhang, the butt and stock were angular and pointed on the top but there was an elegant curve that could accommodate a shoulder. The scope was divided into three sections and was connected by tiny blue rims and a brown strap hung from the clips beneath its middle and stock. Strange letters in white ran along it.

The stranger stared at them, and they stared back. Marsh was not sure how long the standoff lasted until he heard the tramp of feet behind him.

Quickly looking forward again, he saw Bloody Platoon at the crest.

"What's this surprise then..." Barlocke began, but trailed off when he saw the stranger. Everyone remained silent and merely blinked at them. "Xeno..." the Inquisitor murmured. He blinked and said again, louder, "Xeno!"

"Xeno!" Marsh Silas screamed and jumped on his feet. Bloody Platoon roared and charged forward. The xeno raised their rifle and fired one shot, which struck Corporal Effelmen of First Squad in the shoulder. Some of the men stopped to help him. Marsh and Hyram were picked up in the wave of Guardsmen, regained their footing, and led them after the xeno down the opposite side of the bluff.

The xeno was quick on their feet and was many meters ahead of them. Stopping at the mouth of a ravine in the craggy landscape, the xeno fired their rifle again. A streak of white energy shot past Marsh Silas's head and hit Sergeant Queshire in the thigh. More men stopped to help him up. Again, the xeno fired and hit Corporal Hitch in his thigh as well. When he fell, others stopped to render aid.

Before they were even halfway down the bluff's slope, the xeno disappeared into the tree-filled ravine. Gnarly branches jutted out at varying heights and were so thick they nearly created a tunnel.

"Halt!" Inquisitor Barlocke cried just as they entered the ravine. Everyone came skidding to a stop; many were sprinting and ended up tripping, slipping, or running into each other. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and the rest of Bloody Platoon gazed at him in shock.

"We know not if there are traps within. Even if there are none, they have the advantage of concealment. I dare not risk ourselves by delving into this place."

"What shall we do then, Inquisitor?" Marsh Silas asked.

Smiling sweetly, he shouldered his lasgun and turned around. Bloody Platoon parted to let Barlocke pass.

"Let's report it to the regiment. Then, we shall see."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,799


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

* * *

Upon hearing the report of a xeno on their sector, it was not long before regimental command arrived at Bloody Platoon's position. The Valkyrie landed hardly half-an-hour after Barlocke reported their discovery to Colonel Isaev. When the ramp lowered, the Colonel, accompanied by regimental intelligence officers Captain Giles and his adjutant Lieutenant Eastoft. While the latter two remained a brisk, professional gaite, Isaev was storming towards the Inquisitor.

Watching him approach, Marsh Silas felt somewhat intimidated. Although Isaev was a decent regimental commander, a fierce fighter, and exemplar Cadian, he was detached from the common core of the troops. Line Guardsmen did not see him often and when they did, it was often in grim circumstances; either an officer made a grave error or the enemy was beginning to make an advance.

Clearing his throat nervously, Marsh Silas looked over at Hyram. The Lieutenant was standing behind little Galo, who was still wearing the platoon leader's helmet. It was far too large and he had to tip it back so it would not cover his eyes. He was still holding the chocolate bar, or what the Shock Troopers called their _sweet ration_, in both hands.

Between the pair and the platoon sergeant was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was standing very rigidly and continued to wear a scowl. When Barlocke stepped forward to meet Colonel Isaev, she folded her arms across her chest and looked at Marsh Silas.

"How long has the regiment been seconded to the Ordo Hereticus?" she asked.

"A little over a standard month by my count, Junior Commissar," Marsh replied, leveling his violet gaze with her emerald-ocean glare.

"I've not met _one _Inquisitor during any of my deployments like him," she said gruffly.

"Yes, Commissar, we've all said the same in our own way."

Junior Commissar Carstensen eyed Marsh Silas warily and stepped closer. She looked him up and down inquisitively. His first instinct was to recoil slightly, as he would if being confronted by a snarling hound. However, he managed to remain stiff and straight as if he was being inspected when Bloody Platoon formed ranks.

Eventually, she straightened up a little and fixed her cap.

"It does not appear there's anything wrong with you, nor is there anything that makes you stand out. What does he see in you?"

Marsh Silas just shrugged.

"I'd have to be as wise as a priest to tell you that, ma'am."

Carstensen did not smile but she made a sort of, 'pah!' sound that seemed like a short laugh to Marsh Silas's ears. She faced forward again and let her arms fall to her sides. Both watched as Colonel Isaev burst into a tirade of indignant, incredulous shouting. Cursing and spitting, he made grand proclamations against all xenos. It seemed as if the presence of the lone xeno was a personal affront to him.

As the thought crossed his mind, Marsh Silas could not help but nod his head to the side and concur. Cadia was nearly as holy as a Shrine World to him and whether it was a xeno, heretic, or foul foe of Chaos, his ire for them grew tenfold when they touched about his homeworld.

Noticing the coattails of Carstensens black Commissar leathers coming closer, he turned slightly. She was nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, but did not meet his gaze.

Immediately, he grew nervous and looked forward again. For a moment, he closed his eyes, shook his head, and hoped she did not notice. For two weeks, he crossed bayonets with heretics in some of the most dangerous combat a Shock Trooper could find himself in: urban close quarters warfare. Just earlier, he took two bullets for the God-Emperor and the Imperium, and it was a calm Junior Commissar that was striking fear into him.

She leaned her head towards him. "I know your platoon leader cautioned you against rash action. But, you showed courage and daring. The Emperor expects such things out of all of us, especially those of the Astra Militarum. I shall speak to him and recommend you are decorated for your action."

"Thank you, ma'am," Marsh said slowly. "I'm not worthy of such an honor."

"You are modest."

"I just couldn't stand seein' that man howling out there, bleeding out all alone." Marsh thought for a moment, then looked at the Junior Commissar. "It was impossible not to do somethin', I suppose."

Carstensen looked at him from the corner of her eye. Without seeing her full gaze, it was impossible to read her expression. But eventually, her pursed lips softened and the corner of her mouth turned upwards every so slightly.

"I appreciate your honesty," she said in an even tone. "All the same, I shall speak to Lieutenant Hyram. Brave men should be decorated."

"Aye, ma'am," was all Marsh Silas said.

When he looked forward again, Colonel Isaev was rubbing his forehead. Captain Giles appeared amused, while Eastoft was stern-faced as usual. After a few moments, the regimental commander said something and waved his hand dismissively. Barlocke turned halfway and waved Marsh Silas over.

Along with Carstensen, Hyram, and Galo, he approached. When the Inquisitor stepped aside, the three lined up, clicked their heels together, and saluted. Galo was still in front of Hyram and after taking a moment to look up at the trio, raised his hand in salute as well. Immediately, Isaev, Giles, and Eastoft looked down at the lad. Giles let out a hearty laugh and snapped a salute. When Eastoft did not, he cleared his throat and quickly bumped her with the elbow of his lowered arm. Without a betrayal of emotion, the adjutant saluted.

Isaev saluted and lowered his arm; everyone followed suit. But the senior officer continued to stare. Eventually, he raised his gaze to meet Marsh Silas's and pointed at Galo.

"Who is this?"

"I'm Galo!"

"Say, 'sir,'" Hyram whispered quickly, placing his hands on the lad's shoulders.

"Sir!" the boy chimed.

Clearing his throat, Marsh Silas explained who the boy's mother was and how they found him in the old pillbox at the top of the bluff overlooking the now-demolished village. It was during their discovery the xeno stepped into their makeshift camp.

"And Bloody Platoon failed to kill or capture the xeno?" Isaev growled.

"It was upon my order not to pursue, sir. We are dealing with an Aeldari Ranger; for all we know, the ravine he darted into is filled with traps. If he was wise enough to do that, then they must know the area."

"Inquisitor Barlocke, I understand it is not of the Ordo Hereticus' directive to hunt xenos. However, I believe this Ranger presents a clear indication of an incoming Aeldari warhost. While infrequent, their raids are quick, decisive, and destructive. If one is about to occur, I would rather snuff out its source of reconnaissance before calling reinforcements to deal with the threat."

"Sir, if I may," Captain Giles began, stepping forward, "if the Ranger has been in the area, perhaps they have also noticed the heretics' activities.

Barlocke cupped his chin, bowed his head, and tapped his foot. Eventually, he turned his head and glanced at Marsh Silas.

_What do you think? _

The chill crept his back, quickly, like an insect scuttling across the dirt floor of the barracks. Shifting his weight and rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the sensation, he nodded his head to the side.

Dealing with the heretics was a priority, Marsh Silas thought. But he recalled their conversation weeks ago atop the cliff at Army's Meadow. Information was key to a successful operation as well as keeping Bloody Platoon alive. If the Ranger possessed any knowledge, then it could only help them in the end. As well, it did not seem right letting an enemy of the Imperium slip away so easily.

Barlocke grinned.

"Colonel, I approve of this action. But if we are to capture this Ranger, we're going to have to outhink him. I don't know how many Aeldari you've ever had the displeasure of meeting, but they're not so easily outsmarted. And Rangers are quite clever. Getting him will be very difficult."

"Her," Galo suddenly said.

In unison, everyone's gaze fell on the boy.

"Don't speak out of turn, it's rude," Hyram whispered hastily.

"What do you mean, 'her,' lad?" Marsh asked, kneeling in front of him. Carstensen did the same, leaning closer.

"Do you speak of the Ranger?"

"Yes," Galo said slowly. He leaned back against Hyram's legs, then reached up and grabbed the tail of his overcoat. "Am I in trouble?"

Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder. Barlocke was standing right behind him and the Junior Commissar, bent over with his hands on his knees. To his right was Colonel Isaev, and to his left were Giles and Eastoft. Everyone appeared inquisitive.

Turning around, he looked up at Hyram apprehensively. His platoon leader raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and nodded towards the lad. Marsh looked down at Galo and manage to smile kindly.

"No, lad, you're not. How do ya know the Ranger's a her?"

"She found me. When the bad people came to my home, they took all the other kiddies and were taking us away. They were really, really scary. My mama called them true enemies of the Imperium. When they weren't looking, I ran off and hid. But I got lost out here. Then, she found me and brought me here. She gave me food, a bed, and a blanket too. She told me not to go outside all that much during the daytime, but it got so cold I had to make a fire sometimes. She taught me how to make one." He looked down at his feet and kicked at a pebble.

"Were you her prisoner? Did she harm you?" Hram asked, keeling over a little to try and look at Galo.

"No, sir. She was kind to me. She taught me how to set traps for little animals and even let me shoot her gun once."

"Was there any place else she took you?" Captain Giles asked.

"Sometimes, when the bad people came into this town, she would take me to the other side of that place with all the trees. It leads to a rocky beach and there's an old house there. We'd stay there until the bad people went away."

"By the Emperor, the Ranger might still be there," Eastoft said. "We should advance on the area immediately."

"We don't know if the Ranger went there. Even if she is, she'll be alert and ready for a search party. I don't want to waste our time pushing the men and scouring the countryside looking for one Ranger. If we are to move, it is with the greatest chance of success," Barlocke said firmly.

###

It was Captain Giles who came up with the plan.

To deceive the Aeldari Ranger into thinking the regiment was not going to waste their time on a search, they were going to transport First Company back to Army's Meadow by Valkyrie. First Company was going to stay out in the field for another day of operations, as their objectives were complete while Second and Third Company were still completing their own. But, their departure would be the perfect cover while all able-bodied members of Bloody Platoon melted into the countryside. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft volunteered to join the platoon and replace a few of the wounded men.

One kilometer to the north was a high ridge designated No. 875. It ran west to east for nearly three kilometers. Steep, rocky, and pocketed with crags, it was cleared by Second Company earlier in the day. Bloody Platoon would feign a rendezvous and but encamp on the northern side until nightfall. Knowing it was possible the Aeldari Ranger may have returned to the original camp site, Inquisitor Barlocke decided it would be best to raid both sites at once. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft would take Second and Third Squads, while Hyram took First Squad and the Special Weapons Squad.

When asked, Galo told him he saw no other Rangers but her. Barlocke, however, was unconvinced. Knowing Rangers to operate in squads upwards of eight, he did not want to risk an ambush. As a precaution, he would establish a rally point and fall back position with both Heavy Weapons Squads in case either of the raiding parties was hit. Bullard and his spotter, Derryhouse, would also establish an overwatch position on a rise overlooking the entire area of operations. From their vantage point, they would be able to monitor Bloody Platoon's movements as well as any potential exfiltration points the hostile Ranger might use. The Inquisitor was adamant about limiting the risk to the platoon.

Even though he was wounded and Giles, Hyram, and Barlocke wished for him to evacuate, Marsh Silas decided to stay. He would accompany Lieutenant Hyram's party. As well, Galo refused to part with Hyram and Marsh Silas. Although the regimental command staff possessed major reservations of a civilian child remaining with an operational unit, Barlocke had the final word and allowed the young lad to stay.

After the grueling hike and a laborious scaling of the ridge, Bloody Platoon encamped on the opposite side. Bullard and Derryhouse took first watch to allow most of the other men to rest. As night drew near, it grew colder and windier. To escape the elements, men burrowed into the ridge; tents were pitched between rocks and foxholes were dug into the few bare patches of soil. Lamp packs within the tents illuminated the occupants, numbering two, three, and even four. Most lay down their bedrolls and tried to sleep. Others took the time to eat rations or quickly brew recaf with tiny campfires. Those entrenched in the holes wrapped blankets around themselves or pitched their tents so they covered their positions.

Under a rock overhang, the officers and sergeants huddled together by Marsh's glowing lamp pack. Young Galo was with them too, curled up between the platoon sergeant and Hyram under a Militarum blanket. Spread over the ground was a map of the area. Placed on the left lower corner of the map was a compass. Using a measuring ruler, Giles plotted routes and drew lines with a field-grade quill.

"We're here," he said, circling the ridge. "The secondary position on the beach I estimate to be...here," he marked his assumption with a quill blot. "We know the pillbox is here," he marked the position with another filled circle diagonally from the town, which was crossed off with a large red X. Using the measuring ruler, he connected the two points. Turning the ruler against the first point, he angled it downwards by roughly three hundred-thirty degrees and drew a line towards their current position, but stopped about halfway. From the pillbox marking, he made another line going upwards by about thirty degrees until the two lines intersected at the halfway point. "Inquisitor, this is the best location to deploy the rally point, about five hundred meters from the objectives. Bullard and Derryhouse reconnoitered the ground themselves during our march and they assured me you'll have a clear line of sight and excellent field of fire if necessary."

Giles went on, marking an elevated position adjacent to the rally point. "Bullard and Derryhouse will establish their position here."

Barlocke tapped the map with his forefinger.

"It's important we ensure this Ranger cannot slip by us. It's important we stagger our lines and advance so that we can encircle both locations. It might be prudent to send some of the Heavy Weapons troopers with the squads to bolster our ranks further."

"We can spare some," Walmsley Major said, hunched beside Marsh Silas. "I'll keep Albert and Brownlow on a Heavy Bolter, and Olhouser and Synder with their mortar. That'll give us an extra eight men."

"Four to each time. Excellent," Barlocke said with an approving nod. He ran a hand through his brown hair which was so dark it appeared black in the dull yellow glow of the lamp pack. "If the Ranger is at the other location and we spring the tap on her, in all likelihood she will return to the opposite post."

"If Rangers are so wily," Marsh asked, "what's to say she just won't up and run somewhere up, hide in some crag for the night, and wait until we're gone?"

"It is common for every civilization in the galaxy to think themselves exceptional in comparison to all others, dear Silvanus," Barlocke said, refusing to take eyes from the map as he held his thumb on his chin. "The Aeldari are no exception and their arrogance knows no bounds. When they look at us, they hold our cunning in contempt and consider our intellect inferior. I wager this one is no different and we'll use her superiority against her. Tonight, we'll show this Ranger who is truly superior."

Hearing the subtle aggressiveness and the overt confidence in the Inquisitor's voice made everyone grin and nod their heads, including Marsh Silas. Barlocke eventually looked up. "If one of the parties comes across her and does not immediately capture her, try to flush her back towards the other. Communication is the key." He reached over and tapped Sergeant Holmwood on his breastplate. "And real Cadian grit."

That made the Cadians all smile proudly. Eventually, he nodded at Captain Giles. "That'll do. We all know our mission. Go prepare."

Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft collected the map and went to their hole. Sergeants Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthorpe, and Walmsley Major went to brief their squads. Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh remained to check their own wargear. Barlocke simply laid down on the platoon sergeant's unused bedroll and covered his face with his black, wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat.

Keeping his lamp back lit, Marsh pulled his autopistol out of the holster belted to his breastplate webbing. Ejecting the magazine as well as the chambered round, breathed into the ejection point to clear it of any accumulated dust. Opening his weapon cleaning kit, he pulled out a small stick with a tiny steel brush on the end. Sliding it into the barrel, he moved it back and forth, removed it, slid it back in, and repeated the process. When he finished, he checked the sights and cleaned them as well. Testing the trigger by squeezing quickly but gently with his finger, he ensured it was not loose and his fingertip met the proper resistance. Pulling the slide back and forth was a smooth action. Finally, he inspected the magazine well and decided to clear it with the steel brush.

When he finished, he put the brush and the kit away. Ensuring the safety was positioned, he slid the magazine back into the well before tucking it back in his holster. Beside him, Hyram was performing the same act, albeit at a slower pace. But his hands moved with far more comfort and familiarity than when first arrived, adeptly pulled the slide, fingering the trigger, and holding it out to examine the sights.

As he finished, Honeycutt came by. Marsh hailed him and asked after the wounded men who were evacuated. He had not been able to see them before they left.

"The Ranger must be a poor marksman, for all her shots were wounding. Flesh wounds, all of them. It won't be long before they recover."

"Thank the Emperor," Marsh sighed, then nodded. As Honeycutt left, the junior officer finished preparing his weapon and caught Marsh's eye. He smiled shyly. The platoon sergeant nodded and smiled back. "At least we're dealing with a poor shot."

"Aeldari Rangers never miss," Barlocke said from under his hat.

"We'll see about that," Marsh huffed.

"Hopefully, we won't have to," Hyram murmured.

Between them, Galo shifted a little and let out a long breath. "Poor boy," Hyram said, "being out here, away from his mother."

"Better he learns now. Before he goes on to be a Guardsman, he'll be sent to some rock in the Caducades Sea. If he's made it this far in hostile territory, he'll make it out there. Not like some of the lads I knew."

"You and these men did the same around his age."

"Aye," Marsh said coldly, shifting his gaze from the boy between them. "Anyone who's been through it won't ever forget it, I'll tell you that, sir."

"That Ranger taught him how to trap, shoot, and make a basic fire; why do you think she bothered with that?"

"Why did she bother to care for the boy at all, that's what I want to know," Carstensen said. She was sitting next to Marsh Silas examining her Power Fist. With a small straight tool, she fine-tuned some of the finger joints. She would turn it to the right, tightening one, then flex her fingers. If there was too much resistance or it was too loose, she continued to adjust them accordingly.

"I'm sure once we bag this dirty, drooling, fuckwit xeno, we'll find out," Marsh spat. He looked over at Hyram, who's mild expression was enough to show the platoon sergeant his commander disagreed. The Lieutenant was looking down at Galo and rested a hand on the back of the lad's head for a brief moment.

Marsh looked at the boy too. "Your lad...Sydney, was it?"

"Aye."

"He about Galo's age?"

"Aye," Hyram said quietly. "I couldn't imagine my boy being out here."

"Thankfully, you ain't gotta."

"That's the thing, Staff Sergeant. You don't have a son. But one day, you will, and when you see the children of others you will always be reminded of your own. It won't matter if your child is far away or beside you. They will always be on your mind."

"If the sergeant has been doing his duty as a Cadian," Carstensen butted in, "then I'm sure he has many children who will one day rise as Guardsmen too." She looked up at him then. "Wouldn't you want that for your children?"

It was enough to remind Marsh Silas of Bloody Platoon's two-day furlough in Kasr Sonnen. He remembered the confrontation between himself and Barlocke, and the Inquisitor's biting, probing criticism. What stood out more was the Interior Guardsman, the pretty woman who was beneath several other troopers before him, ready and expecting him to do the same. With his arms propping him up, staring down at her, he thought of what would happen if he went through with it like so many times before. Little faces looked back him, wondering who their father was and why he was not there as they suffered through training he found glorious. Even if he relished his own Cadian upbringing, would he want the same for his child? Recalling Barlocke's pity for the Emperor's most revered servants, he wondered if it was right to take away his own child's choice.

"Yes, Junior Commissar. I am proud to father Cadia's future soldiers," Marsh finally said, doing his best to mask the reluctance in his voice.

Carstensen, satisfied, returned to her work. When Marsh looked at Hyram, the officer frowned and looked back down at Galo.

_That was a wise answer, Silvanus_.

Marsh Silas shivered and furrowed his brow. If he was to answer any other way, he thought, she would have reported him to Commissar Ghent or Althaus.

A ripple of handsome laughter passed through him, like a gentle gust of warm wind washing against him.

_I thought Guardsmen found strength in their Commissars and held those still in a training capacity in high regard._

Perhaps those in regiments from random, backwater worlds, Marsh thought huffily, but experienced Guardsmen like him feared them just as much as they admired them. Good men innocent of accusations ranging from cowardice to insubordination were executed by Commissars. Upon this thought, Marsh felt quite bitter.

For a short time, Barlocke's voice did not penetrate his mind any further. Thinking himself free of the voice, Marsh Silas patted down the remainder of his armour and webbing to ensure his weargear was secure. Just as he finished and began to lean back against the wall of the rock, Barlocke's voice returned.

_I sense a story behind such feelings._

"It ain't one I'm tellin' tonight," Marsh mumbled.

"What was that, Staff Sergeant?" Carstensen asked.

"Hm? Oh, I, er..."

_Ask her where she's from._

Clearing his throat, he leaned forward a little. "I was wondering, if appropriate, I could ask you where you hail from."

The Junior Commissar looked up. A lock of her orange hair, fallen from her bun, was over her left eye. Brushing it away, she looked at him with a mixture of irritated hesitation and mild confusion. Eventually, she looked back at her Bolt Pistol and began cleaning it.

"A place you would have never heard of. Sald-Grati. It is a Pleasure World in Segmentum Ultima."

"Begging your pardon," Hyram said, "I would never have assumed an officer like yourself would come from such a place."

"My father was a Commissar before me and I was born while he was stationed there. When he was killed, I was drafted into the Schola Progenium." She reloaded the magazine into the weapon, resulting in an audible _click_. She holstered it. "I never miss that place, merry as it was."

"The Officio Prefectus certainly picked your new home well," Barlocke said sarcastically from under his hat.

"I volunteered for this post, Inquisitor, and I have never regretted my decision."

Barlocke grasped the top of his hat and lifted it from his face. In the lamp pack light, his dark eyes burned like coals. Eventually, his lips twisted into an amused smile.

"I've always enjoyed the company of volunteers," he said. His gaze shifted to Marsh Silas. "Time, young sergeant?"

Marsh turned his wrist and examined his wristwatch.

"Just about."

"Rally the men."

###

After scaling the ridge and reaching the opposite side, Bloody Platoon spread out into a line formation with five meter intervals between them. Stand orders were no lights, so their helmet and weapon attachments were. Even though it was the darkest period of the night, nobody wanted to risk moonlight breaking through the cloud barrier and glinting on their bayonets. As such, their barrels were bare. Some even doffed their helmets and stuffed them into their rucksacks so they didn't rustle so much. Instead, non-commissioned officers wore their soft covers and enlisted men donned their wool-knit caps. Most still wore their helmets, albeit they tightened the straps.

Although it took some time for Marsh's eyes to adjust to the darkness, he was eventually able to make out his comrades. Carstensen was on his left and Hyram was to his right. The Special Weapons Squad was on the left flank and First Squad was on the right.

The line moved at a deliberately slow pace. It was as if the sound of a kicked pebble or a booted foot crunching into a patch of gravel would carry across kilometers and alert the Ranger or any nearby heretics to their position.

Marsh Silas's breathing was shallow. His steps were cautious. He gripped his autopistol tightly.

They progress a hundred meters, then another, and another. Visualizing the marks Captain Giles made on the map, he could tell each time they reached another phase line.

Soon enough, he could see the bluff with the lonely pillbox at the top. Hyram, slightly ahead, raised a fist in the air, halting the line, and then flattened his arm out to the side. Everyone crouched down.

"Stainthrope, Holmwood, crescent formation," the platoon leader whispered over the micro-bead. Marsh Silas watched as First Squad moved forward until it made a forward arch. The Special Weapons Squad did the same, so both squads were effectively forward of the command squad, which remained in the center and anchored the squads together. By this formation, they would be able to easily encircle the pillbox. Hyram waved his hand forward. The march resumed.

Marsh's heart rate began to increase. He felt the mixture of dread and exhilaration that occurred prior to every operation. Breathing deeply, he moved past it as best he could.

Eventually, they were at the foot of the bluff. By the time Hyram halted them again, First Squad and the specialists were already flanking it. "Stainthorpe, close the gap. Everyone go prone and hold position on the crest."

Automatically, everyone dropped down. Wriggling on their bellies and pulling forward with their hands, they ascended the bluff. Clawing his way up, his face nearly in the dirt, Marsh was surprised when he finally reached the top. Stopping, he waited for the others to join him. Carstensen slithered up, then Hyram, and soon he could see the other shapes of his comrades. Hyram's voice crackled over the micro-bead link, "Marsh, Carstensen, Drummer Boy, Babcock, Walmsley's, move in."

Marsh felt the Junior Commissar tap his shoulder pauldron as she got up. He did the same. The figures of the others also stood up. Everyone approached the door with their weapons raised; nothing appeared to have been disturbed in their absence. Walmsley Major led his brother and Babock to the right side of the door, while Carstensen, Marsh, and Drummer Boy lined up on the other. Bracing for the breach, the platoon sergeant grasped the Junior Commissar's shoulder with one hand and readied his autopistol.

Walmsley Major nodded. Carstensen nodded. Marsh tapped her shoulder twice and she darted around the corner. Marsh, still holding her shoulder, was right behind her. In the instant the team flooded in, those with flashlight attachments turned them on. White beams lit the interior. No one was inside.

Carstensen waved her hand towards the crates in the back. The two Walmsley brothers approached carefully, checked behind them, and inside them. Both turned around and shook their heads.

"Shit," Marsh swore. "Drummer Boy, contact Captain Giles."

Drummer Boy crouched down with the handheld from his Vox-caster.

"Captain Giles, Captain Giles, do you read, over? Yes, sir, we've overtaken the position. No xenos, over...yes, sir. Out. Marsh Silas, they're just about to move in."

"Alright, let's regroup on the Lieutenant."

The team filtered out of the pillbox and huddled beside Hyram. Marsh informed him of the situation while Drummer Boy monitored communications. A minute later, Drummer Boy lowered the handheld from his ear.

"Sir, Captain Giles reports no sign of the xeno."

Hyram didn't speak for a few moments. Marsh was close enough that he could read the disappointed expression on the junior officer's face. But then, his features lit up.

"Holmwood, split your squad and open a gap in our line to the north," he ordered over the micro-bead.

"Sir!?" came the squad leader's disgruntled response.

"Trust me, Sergeant. See it's done." He looked up at the others. "Resume your original positions. Drummer Boy, stay by me. Lights off, that's an order." Everyone dispersed and slid down the crest. They were just low enough to be out of sight but could poke their nose over the top and gaze at the pillbox.

Marsh Silas, laying beside the platoon leader, rolled over so his mouth was right next to his ear.

"Sir, we're risking hostiles getting through our line if we open a gap."

"That's the point," the officer replied, "if the Ranger was there, she might come here to wait out the night. She does not know _we _ know she has two hiding spots. If she comes here, then we can bag her!"

Marsh thought it over for a moment, letting the plan register in his mind.

"Yes, sir," he said, rather surprised. He got back down.

The air grew tense as the Lieutenant's orders passed down the line. Everyone was huddled up, trying to obscure their position as well as stay warm in the frightfully chilly wind. Nobody moved, nobody made a sound. Everyone was so excited and so bundled with nerves, they were hesitant to even breathe.

Rolling carefully onto his belly, Marsh rested his chin on the very crest of the bluff and stared at the pillbox. Carstensen, back on his left, and Hyram, still to his right, did the same. Just like him, neither could take their eyes away from the target.

Minutes ticked by. The wind howled; when it reached a lull, it was so quiet the crashing surf could be heard a few kilometers to the south.

Staring, Marsh waited and waited. He wanted to hear the sound of footsteps on frozen prairie scrub or heels slipping on a patch of gravel. Any sound, any sight, that would give away the position of this bothersome xeno wench. Yet, there was no such noise. All he could hear were the distant waves and the wind running over them. The ground was not disturbed and the pillbox remained a dark shape in the night.

A gust of wound ran over the bluff. Some of the higher, thicker tufts of yellow scrub grass swayed. The pressure from the wind was so great, some of the patches flattened out. It was such a peculiar sight that even Marsh Silas noticed it. Yet, when the breeze passed, one of the smaller, grassy patches did not rise back up. Strangely, it seemed to be pushed down by some unseen force.

Suddenly, a black booted foot appeared on top of it, followed by a leg; little by little, a figure was revealed, and then, to Marsh's amazed eyes, was the Ranger. She appeared from nothingness, not even from a shadow. For a moment, she was not there, and suddenly she was. No sound, no disturbance of ground, nothing denoted her presence. Even her rifle was hidden before her appearance.

Overcoming his amazement, he watched as the Ranger turned her head and moved towards the pillbox. Just as she entered, Hyram lifted his lasgun.

"Now!" cried.

"Stand like a fuckin' statue!" Marsh found himself yelling as he stood up, aiming his pistol.

The Ranger froze, half in, half out of the pillbox doorway. Light after light turned on, illuminating her long, white coat and hood. Her head did not turn.

Everyone closed in until Hyram lifted his hand. "Marsh Silas, Drummer Boy, Babcock, Yoxall, disarm her."

Warily, the four approached. Having never been this close to a xeno, Marsh fought his excitement and disgust towards the hooded creature. Keeping his autopistol raised, he prodded her back with the barrel.

"Drop your weapon and turn around. Slowly."

She began to turn, but did not release her rifle. Marsh grimaced and pressed the pistol harder, this time into her side. "I said drop it." Wordlessly, she refused. "Drummer Boy, take it."

Shouldering his lasgun, the Voxman approached, she smacked Marsh's autopistol with the butt of her rifle. The impact traveled up his arm and pulsated in his wound. As he staggered and cried out, she whipped the weapon around and struck the Voxman just under his flak armor with the barrel. It was such a hard hit he keeled over. Following it up with a kick to his chest, the Ranger deflected Babock's outstretched hand before it could wrap around her throat. Then, she grabbed it, pulled him towards her, and let go. As he stumbled, his grip faltered and the colors nearly fell out. When he felt, the flag struck Yoxall, briefly masking his vision. The Ranger utilized this moment and hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle.

At this point, Marsh recovered. Dropping his autopistol, he lunged for her and ended up latching onto the rifle. Staring into the black face mask and gritting his teeth, he tried to tear it from her grasp. Behind him, he could hear others approaching while Hyram shouted, 'hold your fire!'

Just before the others closed in, Marsh thought he had the advantage. But the Ranger simply let go. The rifle flung towards Marsh Silas and hit him square in the face. Crying out, he fell backwards. He looked up just in time to see her running back towards the ravine.

Hyram appeared on his left.

"After the Ranger, quickly now!" he cried, waving his arm. Reaching down, he took Marsh Silas by his webbing and pulled him up. "Drummer Boy, tell Captain Giles to collapse towards us now! Come on now, men!"

Throwing up a cheer, Bloody Platoon found itself repeating its same action earlier that day. Bolting down the opposite side of the bluff, they could see the Ranger making for the ravine's trees.

Hyram pointed to the side. "Carstensen, specialists, flank ahead!"

"Come on, come on, move it, move it!" Carstensen yelled, taking the men and charging through the tree line.

This time, they were right behind the Ranger. When she ducked into the ravine, they were right behind her. It ran for at least one hundred fifty meters. At first, it was a dark tunnel and the beams of their flashlights shone in erratic patterns. Moments later, they could see similar lights flashing at the other end. A cry rang out from the rest of Bloody Platoon.

The Ranger kept on moving, searching for an alternative route. Monty Peck, behind Marsh Silas, began singing a tune often sung in the regiment. Bloody Platoon soon joined in:

"_Eldar cower!_

_Eldar hide!_

_Eldar trick!_

_Eldar lie!_

_Eldar run!_

_The Eldar fall!_

_Down they go,_

_the Eldar are done!_

_Done, done, done!_

_Down, down, down!"_

As both halves of Bloody Platoon drew closer to each other, trapping the Ranger between them, she paused for a brief moment. Then, she turned to go right. But bursting through the trees came Barlocke and the four other men he was with. She turned and attempted to go through the opposite side, but the Junior Commissar and her party came running out. Captain Giles and his men approached just as Marsh Silas did. Surrounded, the Ranger stopped.

Panting and laughing, the Guardsmen circled around her. Many attached their bayonets and hooked the blades under her neck. Others pointed them at her center. Some men just held the blades up, close to her face and neck; it was as if she was wearing a collar of steel.

Barlocke opened her coat and pulled an odd, pistol-sized weapon out. It had a stubby, angular barrel, a bulbous center with golden gems embedded in it, then a fairly standard grip and rear similar to an autopistol.

Catching his breath, Hyram pushed through some of the men, waving some of their weapons away. Turning, he pointed at Drummer Boy.

"Call for extraction," he ordered. He turned to the Ranger. "You are now a prisoner of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment. Surrender peacefully, or I'll have my Staff Sergeant pull a bullet in your skull."

Marsh could not help but grin. The Ranger stared at the pair for a few moments, then slowly raised her hands. She pulled the hood of her trench coat down, revealing a mane of white-blonde hair. Then, she removed the black face mask. Her face was narrow and pointed, and her features were smooth, fine, and soft. No blemishes marked her skin, save for a small, faded scar that ran from her left cheekbone which traveled beside her corresponding eye. Icy, light blue eyes glared into Hyram's, then Marsh Silas's.

"I accept," she said in a calm, smooth voice. Handing her mask to the Inquisitor, she put her wrists together and held her hands out. Marsh and Hyram exchanged a quick, hesitant glance before the former reached into his kit bag. Pulling out a short run of rope, he tied it tightly around her wrists. Bloody Platoon took a few paces backwards and took their blades away from her. Stepping around behind her, Marsh placed a hand on her back and shoved her forward. As Bloody Platoon began trundeling down the wooded ravine, they could hear the sound of Valkyries approaching.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,639


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

* * *

The Valkyrie touched down, jostling all the occupants. Those who were asleep stirred, blinking and stretching groggily. Others, awake despite their fatigue, stood up.

Marsh Silas, who was sitting at the end of the compartment with Galo beside him, looked back towards the front of the aircraft. Hyram was sitting beside the prisoner, wearing a serious expression. Barlocke was on the other side of her, examining a data slate. As for the Ranger, she sat placidly and betrayed no emotion. Across from her, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, Carstensen, Drummer Boy, Honeycutt, Babock, Logue, and Foley, sat in the troop bay. Everyone was staring warily at the xeno, who seemed unconcerned with their curious looks. Even the door gunners on either side were looking over their shoulders at the Ranger.

As the engines died away and Marsh could hear more clearly, there was a loud, hissing sound. The cabin depressurized and the ramp lowered. When it did, Hyram was the first one on his feet.

"Look lively, men," he said. "Let's hand off the prisoner and then we're due for a rest."

"C'mon lad, I'll take you to your mama," Marsh said to Galo, picking him up with one arm and placing him on his good shoulder. The boy smiled eagerly and held onto his webbing.

Army's Meadow was bathed in light from sentry campfires, lamps strung on barracks, tactica control centers, and the regimental headquarters, and industrial lighting fixtures. Enginseers conducted repairs on Chimeras back from the field and crewmen filtered into the crowd. Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and the other company commanders were waiting for them. Much of the regiment, having heard there was an Aeldari prisoner, gathered around to get a look at her. Members of Bloody Platoon who already touched down in previous Valkyrie flights were waiting too, if just to greet their remaining comrades.

Everybody's boot _clanged _on the ramp as they walked down. Army's Meadow was bathed in lights from industrial fixtures, lamps, and campfires from the sentries on duty. The party walked up to Colonel Isaev and saluted, including Galo. Logue and Foley shoved the Ranger in front of the regimental commander. He looked her up and down, then leaned in close.

"So this is the xeno scum who shot three of my men. Thank whatever bastardized gods you mongrels worship we have not cleaved your head from your shoulders. Today, you receive the rare gift of the Imperium of Man's mercy. I assure you, it will not last very long. Resist, attempt to escape, or disobey an order, your death will be swift."

"I would expect nothing less, Colonel," the Ranger said politely. Grimacing, Isaev grabbed a lock of her hair and pulled very hard until they were nearly face-to-face.

"Do not test me, xeno filth! Mouth off to me once more, and I'll let my men introduce you to their bayonets. A standing order in Cadian regiments is to keep your blades sharp at all times. You'll never come across a dull blade."

To make himself truly understood, he turned her head and motioned to a throng of the Shock Troopers. Many were still holding their M36 Kantrael Pattern lasguns and held them up to show off the bayonets. Others held up their combat and trench knives. The cold steel shone yellow and gold in the base's lights.

Colonel Isaev let go of her hair and shoved her back towards the raiding party. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft caught her; the latter took a sack hood from her kit bag and placed it over the Ranger's head. Isaev pointed towards the regimental headquarters. "Take this _thing_ to the cell."

Captain Giles and Eastoft took her away. Colonel Isaev stepped up to the party, still standing by. "Thank you, Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Thank Lieutenant Hyram, Colonel. Were it not for his actions, we would not have trapped the Ranger."

Marsh looked at his commanding office. Hyram was still standing at attention, so he kept his head up and was looking straight ahead. But he noticed his violet eyes filled with surprise for a moment, then they flitted down for a moment.

Walking over, Colonel Isaev nodded approvingly and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, lad. You'll be decorated for this action. I'm very proud of Bloody Platoon's service these past two weeks."

"Thank you, sir!" Hyram replied loudly.

"That'll do for now; round up your men and return to barracks."

"Yes, sir!"

As Colonel Isaev and his retinue of staff officers marched back towards the regimental headquarters, the rest of the regiment began to drift towards their barracks as well. However, Bloody Platoon lingered, respectfully waiting for their commanders to come with them. Barlocke walked in front of Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen. Taking off his hat, he closed his eyes and breathed in the nighttime, sea air.

Copying him as clandestinely as possible so the others did not notice, Marsh was happy to take in the salty air. It was far fresher than the dry, rotting prairie grass. Even though two weeks of constant combat, cross-country movement, and living in the rough was a glorious duty he was happy to fulfill, it was good to be back in the security of their base.

Inquisitor Barlocke motioned towards Junior Commissar Carstensen with his hat.

"You fight well. What do you think of Bloody Platoon?"

"They're capable Guardsmen," was all she said. Barlocke nodded, then turned his attention to Marsh Silas.

"You did very well, indeed. I hope you're proud of the men."

"I'm always proud of them, Inquisitor," Marsh replied. He looked over at Hyram, who was looking back at him. Smirking a little, the platoon sergeant reached over and biffed the officer's shoulder pauldron. "Him too." Bashfully, Hyram chuckled and looked away.

"I suppose Bloody Platoon will make a Cadian of you yet, Lieutenant," Barlocke said. "For now, I bid you a goodnight, I have to contact an old friend."

The trio watched the Inquisitor trundle away. Once he was gone, they looked up at Galo, who was disinterested in the whole affair. Without exchanging a word or glance, they turned and walked towards the refugee camp.

Hearing the tramping and trudging of booted feet behind him, Marsh Silas turned around briefly. Bloody Platoon was right behind him. Smirking, he knew there was no deterring them, so he said nothing and allowed them to follow.

Most of the refugees were in the tents provided to them by the regiment. A few low fires were still burning. Some of the civilians were around them, disinterestedly poking them with sticks. Huddled together, they shivered in their raggedy clothes. Scattered around them were the remnants of a few morsels of food or ration packets. Tools for digging trenches, filling sandbags, and reinforcing entrenchments were propped up against crates.

Everyone took off their helmets or soft covers.

"Miss Asiah?" Marsh asked. None of the civilians looked up. "Miss Asiah?" he asked again, louder this time.

In a ten at the end of the camp, he could see something stirring. The flap of the tent was pushed aside and Asiah appeared. Dak bags were under her reddened eyes. Her face was dirty from working all day long. In the firelight, Marsh Silas could see the clean, tear tracks cutting through the grime on her cheeks. Her blonde hair hung in a frayed, loose bun.

Before she could even speak, her eyes widened and lips parted. One hand pressed against her heart and the other clutched her stomach. The fabric of her jacket tightened in her grasp.

"Galo?" she gasped.

"Mama!" the boy yelled and burst into tears.

Marsh crouched down and Galo jumped from his shoulders. Mother and son ran towards each. Asiah scooped him up in her arms and hugged him tightly. She laughed and cried for joy. Galo did as well and clung to his mother as if he would never let go around. After a few moments, Asiah knelt and parted the boy from her. Looking him up and down, she held his face and ran her fingers through his hair. Giggling as she checked him over for cuts or bruises, Galo wiped the tears from his eyes. Assured he was not hurt, she hugged him again. This time, her jubilant cries were stifled as she buried her face in Galo's shoulder.

Standing by, Marsh Silas watched and smiled. During the airlift, he thought he would feel proud to return the boy to his mother. Instead, he felt satisfied, accomplished, and beyond that, happy. Plenty of times he indulged such a feeling; it came from the crude jokes swapped across campfires or the barracks card table, successfully completing missions for the God-Emperor and Imperium, limiting the casualties and suffering of his men, and enjoying their company in the Kasr taverns and canteens. Yet, this was different. It was a contented, reserved warmth that filled his chest and revitalized his weary bones.

It was difficult not to recall the rescue operation's outcome from so many days ago. Yet as he watched Galo barrage his mother with tales of his time in the hinterland and she bombarded him with as many questions, he realized this is what he may have felt if they brought all the kiddies back to their parents. By the grace of the God-Emperor, he was able to bring one back alive. Closing his eyes, he thanked Him for his blessings.

A hand on his shoulder made him open his eyes. Hyram was looking at him and wore a similar expression to his own. Marsh could only guess he was feeling the exact same way as he was. Both nodded at each other and looked back.

When they looked forward, they saw Asiah standing in front of the fire with Galo beside her. A gust of wind rolled from the sea behind her; it tugged her hair free of its knot and it cascaded down her shoulders. Even her scarf was loosened and flowing with her locks. She stared at the officer, the sergeant, and the Junior Commissar, whose uniforms were worn and dirty and whose faces were coated with dust. Bloody Platoon, standing behind the trio, were all equally filthyDespite their mounting fatigue, they all managed to smile, including Carstensen.

"Thank you," she said, her voice broken with sobs, "thank you."

Walking over with Galo, she threw her arms around Marsh's neck and kissed him deeply. When her lips parted from his own, she held him tightly for a few moments. Blinking, blushing, the platoon sergeant held her back for a few moments. Eventually, she parted slightly, sliding her hands down his arms until she held his. They smiled at one another.

"I must apologize, Miss Asiah," he said, "my faith in the Emperor, and in hope, should have been much stronger, as strong as yours. I should never have doubted you."

"What was said, what was felt, what was done," she began, her voice still breaking as the tears rolled down her cheeks, "matters not, no more. You have delivered my only son to me. May the Emperor bless you."

She then looked at Hyram, embraced him, and went to kiss him. Hyram turned his face a little so her lips landed on his cheek. Asiah parted from him and went over to Carstensen. Just as the former raised her arms, the latter held her hand up.

"You're welcome," she said, quickly and bluntly.

Asiah went to every single member of Bloody Platoon and kissed each one. By the time she finished, every single man was red in the face and beaming with pride.

Going back to her son, she whispered something in his ear. Stepping forward, he looked up at Marsh Silas, clicked his heels together, and saluted.

"Thank you for bringing me back to mama," Galo said.

Marsh did not hesitate and saluted back. Hyram followed suit, and so did the rest of Bloody Platoon. When he looked over, Marsh saw the Junior Commissar was not joining in. He made no expression or sound, but when she looked over and met his eyes, she too raised her hand.

The salutations ended.

"Emperor's blessings, miss," Hyram said. "May He always look over you and young Galo."

"And may He ever protect you and your men," Asiah replied. At that, Hyram went over to Galo and knelt in front of him.

"Thank you for your company little man. Be good and listen to mama, now."

"Yes, sir!"

"Atta boy."

Marsh Silas bent over and ruffled Galo's thick head of blonde hair.

"You're a good lad," was all he said.

Bloody Platoon said their goodbyes one by one, turned around, and began trudging back to their barracks. Marsh was one of the last to leave, joining Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen. He watched as Asiah and Galo, hand-in-hand, disappeared into her tent.

Walking with Hyram and Carstensen, Marsh said nothing. Nobody spoke throughout the entire platon. In a piecemeal fashion, they plodded up the slope. Some men took out lho-sticks, lit them, and began smoking. Others drank what little water remained in their canteens or nibbled on a nutrition bar from their ration pack. A few looped their arms around another man's, helping him walk and bear the weight of his heavy rucksack.

Entering the bunker and descending the ladder, they journeyed to their combs. When they reached theirs, Hyram and Marsh Silas realized there was no space allocated for Carstensen. Honeycutt volunteered the medical comb for her use until they could dig her a proper space in the barracks. Instead, she opted to set up her sleeping back next to Marsh and Yoxall's sleeping cuts. Still unsatisfied, Marsh offered his own bunk and Carstensen accepted.

As he dropped his gear and rolled his sleeping back out on the flooring beside his bunk, he was ready to fall asleep the moment his head rested on his bundle.

"Marsh Silas?"

He looked up. Hyram was leaning halfway out of his personal quarters. "Do you have a moment?"

"Yes, sir."

Marsh got up and brushed by him. Hyram let the curtain fall back into place, then sat down at his desk. Instead of a lamp pack, there was a wax candle burning in a small, tin pan at the corner of his wooden table.

"At ease."

"Sir."

"Would you sit?"

There was a small crate containing Hyram's other belongings beside the desk. Pulling it out slightly, Marsh sat down and looked at him. The officer was smiling at him. "Thank you for your help, these past weeks. I was close to giving up when you found me drunk. Figured I'd get caught eventually and face Ghent's Bolt pistol. All my hopes seemed so foolish up to then, but you reminded me why I wanted to be a Shock Trooper. I know I have a long way to go𑁋"

"𑁋a long way, sir," Marsh said jokingly. Hyram chuckled.

"A long, long way, before I can be like Overton, but I'm going to keep trying. I wanted you to know that."

Marsh regarded him for a moment, bent over with his hands clasped between his knees. Eventually, he sat up a little bit and rested his left arm carefully on the table. Leaning in a little bit, he nodded his head to the side.

"Sir, I don't know much about anythin', really. But if you want my piece, I don't think we need ya to be like Good ol' Overton. I think we need Lieutenant Hyram, to be Lieutenant Hyram."

The officer blinked a little, smiled tenderly, and looked away.

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant." He cleared his throat. "Junior Commissar Carstensen recommended you for a medal. I concur. I'm going to draft the citation right now and take it to Isaev personally in the morning."

"Ah, sir, it's𑁋"

"It's the least I can do to repay you. You could have reported me to Captain Murga or Commissar Ghent and gotten a new officer. Instead, you took a chance with me," Hyram said. The platoon leader took out a sheet of paper from his officer's folder, which was actually a satchel with a button flap and that contained maps, orders, and other writing tools. Just as he began to fill in the citation sheet, most of which was already prewritten, he stopped and looked up. "Come around beside me."

Moving the crate over, Marsh Silas looked down at the sheet. Most of what was written was indecipherable to his eyes. Tapping the first words under the title for the card with the rear of the pencil, Hyram looked at him. "Can you read this?"

Looking between him and the sheet, Marsh sighed heavily and leaned forward. "By...the...rec...rac..."

"Rec, that's correct. Go on."

"...ca...co...I can't do it, sir."

"The word is, 'recommendation.' It's a long word with five syllables𑁋"

"What's a syllable?"

"Look at the first two words. 'By,' and, 'the.' Each one makes one sound. One sound is one syllable. 'Recommendation,' has five. Rec-o-mmen-da-tion. Try it, from the beginning."

"By, the, rec...o...mmendation..."

"Good, go on."

"By the reco-mmen-dation of...L...L..." Marsh grumbled and rubbed the back of his head. He looked up, his brow furrowed in frustration. "Why're you making me read this?"

Hyram set the pencil down and looked at him intently.

"I'm going to teach you how to read and how to write, Marsh Silas. You are teaching me war. In return, I'll teach you your letters. Is it a deal?"

Bling in surprise, Marsh Silas gazed at the citation card, then at Hyram, and finally at his hand. Looking back up, he smiled and scoffed.

"No disrespect, sir, but you ain't no teacher."

"Nonsense!" Hyram blurted. "I taught my son how to read and write. I'm sure I can teach a hound like you."

"Now that you mention it, you'd probably have an easier time gettin' a dog to write than me, sir."

"Nevertheless, I'm willing to try. Are you?" Hyram frowned and tapped the card with his hand. "You can read a map and make out numbers, but not a tome or a document. Don't you want to know what the rest of it says?"

Marsh Silas pursed his lips in an unsure fashion. Slowly, his gaze fell back to the citation card. Most of the words were just bizarre series and combinations of squiggly marks to him. But the longer he stared, he felt more intrigued by what it said. Throughout his career as a Guardsman, he watched staff officers pour over data slates, letters, and plans. Scribes of the Adeptus Administratum in the myriad offices in the Kasrs scribbled incessantly on long, winding sheets of parchment. Priests opened their holy books and made thunderous speeches in the name of the Emperor. All his life, he could never read along and could never understand what they all wrote. From youth to soldier, he was always on the periphery of their knowledge and men like Ghent and Hayhurst mocked him for it.

Setting his jaw, Marsh Silas held his hand out. Hyram, who previously lowered his, smiled gleefully and took it quickly.

###

"By order of the Cadian High Command and Segmentum Obscurus Command, the following Guardsmen of First Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment are hereby awarded the Crimson Skull for treating wounded men under fire. Step forward, Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, Sergeant Cornelius Honeycutt, and Field Chirurgeon Adriaan Walcott, Field Chirurgeon Maurer, Field Chirurgeon Palle, Field Chirurgeon..."

In step with Honeycutt, Walcott, and other medical personnel, Marsh Silas took six paces forward towards Colonel Isaev. All three were wearing fresh, tan-colored winter fatigues. For the occasion, each wore previously awarded medals on their left breastplate. Each man was clean-shaven, their hair was gelled and combed, and their faces were freshly-washed; the smell of standard issue soap hung and shaving cream hung in the air. Both the platoon sergeant and the medic wore their low-peaked tan caps with black bills. Walcott wore an enlisted man's soft cover which was a green box-cap with a shorter bill.

The entire regiment was assembled in the wide, paved courtyard in front of regimental headquarters. Officers stood with their command squads in front of their respective units. All were clad in crisp fatigues and soft-cover headwear. Many were already decorated earlier in the morning and their chests glowed with previous awards. Even the refugees were present from the occasion, although they were a few meters distant from the main body of Shock Troopers.

As Colonel Isaev lowered the parchment he was reading from, one of his staff officers came forward with an ornate, polished wooden box. It was made from rich, redwood that shone in the stark, late morning sunlight shining down on Army's Meadow. It was not huge, but large enough that he needed both hands to open it.

Lifting the lid, Isaev pulled out one of the meals. The Crimson Skull was a silver medal with four golden skulls facing north, west, south, and east. Each skull was connected by a black cross with a circular ruby embedded in the center. The medal itself was suspended on a silver clasp with a golden latch, and a ribbon red vertical bar in the center, two thin white strips on either side of it, and two medium sized black bars bordering those. A golden bar ran across the top of the ribbon.

Turning, Isaev flashed one of his rare smiles that looked all the more ghastly by the exposing scar running from the corner of his mouth. But Marsh's heart swelled with pride as he pinned it to his tunic. It was placed at the end of his single row of medals; his single Merit of Terra, Administratum Medal, and the Eagle Ordinary. Above the row was the Triple Skull medallion and to its right was the Ribbon Intrinsic.

The first medal was defined by a golden skull on a silver medallion with a golden wreath wrapping around both sides and almost meeting at the top; ribbon was a thin vertical white bar bordered by a large blue one on the left and a similarly sized one on the right. Following it, the Administratum Medal was a silver medal with a golden skull in the center, wrapped in a twirling, white banner. Its ribbon was defined by two horizontal; the top was white and the bottom was light blue. The Eagle Ordinary was a simple golden medal in the shape of the Aquila, with etches to denote the wings. A thin, vertical, yellow bar was in the center of the ribbon, with rich, dark blue on either side. Pinned to the ribbon was a bronze skull, denoting a second award of the medal. Above, the Triple Skull was a large square medal with a thinner, horizontal bar running across its center. The base square was black on the upper left and lower right corners; it was yellow in the two other corners. On the horizontal bar was a large, white skull, with a smaller, bronze skull on either side. As for the Ribbon Intrinsic, the reddened brass was in the shape of a shield. In the center was the Aquila's double-head. Hanging diagonally from the bottom were two ribbons; a large, black column made up the center, with two white vertical borders followed by black borders.

After the Crimson Skull was pinned to his chest, Marsh Silas saluted and Isaev returned it. When their hands dropped, they shook hands.

"Every time I look at your chest, I remember why I became a Shock Trooper," the Colonel whispered in his ear.

Unable to speak, Marsh just smiled and nodded. He did his best to contain the pride swelling in his chest and he silently thanked the Emperor for his decorations. Etched into his memory were the ceremonies of the previous awards; postponing his demobilization, defending a Logis Strategos facility during a planetary attack, rescuing a wounded comrade, holding ground during an enemy counterattack, and holding the line with the survivors of the 540th Youth Corps. It was for that same action he was awarded the Triple Skull; men like Arnold Yoxall, Babcock, and the Walmsley brothers fought with him that day.

After Isaev pinned the award on Honeycutt and others, who all had dozens of the medals pinned to their chests, Isaev turned around to the regiment. "You have fought long, hard, and well. Your services to the Emperor, the Imperium, and Cadia have not gone unnoticed. Serve Him, follow orders, smite the enemy, and you will be honored. Our foes have been countered, but there is still much work to be done. Rest, heal, and prepare for your next assignments!"

_My, my, my, dear Silvanus, you do look handsome with all those medals on your chest._

Marsh gritted his teeth. Barlocke's voice came like a cool whisper, as if the Inquisitor was right behind him and his lips were beside his ears. He could almost feel his hands grasping his shoulders.

Barlocke was standing by the regimental headquarters entrance, arms folded across his chest, head bare, a satisfied grin on his face. Doing his best not to attract any attention, Marsh looked forward again and tried to keep his mind clear.

_Oh, beg your pardon, I'll let you focus on this little ceremony. Once it's over, fetch Hyram and join me here._

For some time, Colonel Isaev continued his speech. Eventually, after making his point several times over in different flavors of colorful language, who threw his fist into the air. "For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia!"

"For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia!" the entire regiment thundered.

"Dismissed!"

The regiment dispersed. Marsh attempted to head over to Bloody Platoon, but Captain Giles stepped in front of him. Immediately, he shook his hand and clapped him on the back.

"Good on ya, lad. I hope you're proud a' yourself for earning that."

"Yes, sir, I am, sir," Marsh said.

"It was good to get back out in the field. It's been some time; next time the regiment rolls out in force, I think I'll come again too. Working with Bloody Platoon is always a pleasure."

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood," Lieutenant Eastoft said, walking up beside her commanding officer. When Giles let go of Marsh's hand, Eastoft took it. "You've brought great honor to yourself and to your men."

"Thank you, ma'am," Marsh replied, smiling as he tried to look past her and see where Hyram was. There were many Guardsmen moving around the base now, but he could glimpse Bloody Platoon clustered just beyond the masses. Most likely, they were waiting for him to join them.

"Ha, you'll never hear her say that!" Giles laughed, clapping his adjutant on the back. An expression of annoyance crossed her angular face and her violet eyes flitted in the Captain's direction.

"Sir, please."

"She can take heretics firing cheap autogun slugs over her head but not a little tap on the back."

"Fighting the enemy is a matter of duty, but your..._taps_, aren't."

"Ha! She and I came up in the Youth Armies, together, did you know that, Marsh Silas?"

"Beg pardon, sir, ma'am, I've got orders to report to Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Ah, go on then, lad. Good on you."

Marsh saluted and walked around the pair. He looked over his shoulder at them, then continued on to Bloody Platoon. After a few paces later, he heard a light voice calling his name. Looking around, he spotted Asiah and Galo standing in front of the other refugees. Both were smiling and waving at him. Grinning back, he waved and continued on. Just as he turned to jog over to his men, Captain Murga stepped in front of him. Like Giles, he thrust his hand into Marsh's own grip.

"Overton was right to make you his platoon sergeant. I remember when he first requested your promotion, I was a little unsure if you'd make the cut. Today marks another time you've proved me wrong. I tell ya what, son, if you keep this up, I'll make you the company sergeant once Hayhurst is demobilized or promoted."

"Oh, thank you, sir. I have orders from Inquisitor Barlocke."

"Better see to it quickly. Good work, son."

"Thank you, sir."

As he moved aside his company commander, he finally got to Bloody Platoon. Even then, he faced a gauntlet of congratulatory handshakes and pats on the back. Every single man in Bloody Platoon wanted to extend their praise. Grateful as he was, he wormed through them and eventually came upon Lieutenant Hyram conferring with Junior Commissar Carstensen. He explained Barlocke wanted to see them and the platoon leader left Carstensen in charge.

When they came up to the Inquisitor, Marsh was nearly out of breath. Barlocke smiled down at the pair, then motioned for them to follow. Going inside regimental headquarters, they passed through the rows of desks and passed corridors of offices. Staff officers, senior non-commissioned officers, priests, and a swath of Adeptus Administratum personnel such as scribes and menials, filled each floor of the structure. Guardsmen manned the bunkers that ran around the entire building.

Winding their way through, they eventually came to a series of storage rooms. However, they diverted into another hallway and came to a few isolated rooms. One of the heavy steel doors was guarded by two Guardsmen. As soon as Barlocke waved his hand, they departed. Going to the keypad, he tapped a code in. The door hissed and opened. Within, the Ranger sat on a chair; her hands were tied behind it and both ankles were bound to the legs of the chair.

"Here she is, our prize," he said. The Ranger looked up, eyed each one, then just looked forward. Folding his hands behind his back, Barlocke turned around and straightened out. For a moment, he actually appeared official for a change. "A colleague of mine from past days, an agent of the Ordo Xenos, will arrive in two days time. In that time, in lieu of an Alien Hunter, I have full custody of this xeno until he comes."

Marsh Silas and Hyram looked at each other, puzzled. When they looked back, Barlocke continued. "Until he arrives, the regiment will be remaining encamped. I'm assigning you two as the Ranger's security guards."

"Sir, we do have a platoon to lead," Hyram said.

"I think Junior Commissar Carstensen will be more than capable of handling their affairs in your absence."

"So, what do we do?" Marsh said. "Stand around, look tough?"

"Generally."

Barlocke began to leave. Marsh caught his sleeve.

"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?"

"Just to finalize my plans. Inquisitor Fabricius Sault is coming here on short notice and I hate to be a bother. I want to have all the materials he needs to conduct the interrogation."

"I can't imagine what materials an Inquisitor would use," Hyram said, looking at the Ranger.

"Oh, they're the kind of instruments that put fear in _me._ And my old friend Fabricius, he's rather...creative. I've seen him prolong a xeno's torture𑁋pardon me, interrogation𑁋for days on end. By the time he's through with them, you can't even tell what kind of xeno they were. Ooh, I shudder to think of it." Barlocke smiled charitably. "I'll be off then."

Marsh and Hyram watched him stroll down the hall, turn the corner, and vanish from sight. Besides the bustling and orchestra of voices filtering from the common room of the headquarters, it was silent in their corner of the facility.

"That's _your_ friend, for you," Hyram said after a few moments.

"I'd be lyin' if I said he don't scare me sometimes," Marsh said, still looking down the hall.

Both men turned around, looked through the open doorway, and stared at the Ranger. She did not look at them.

"He didn't tell us the code," Hyram muttered. Walking into the cell, he crouched in front of her. Marsh followed and stood behind him. A dull, white light hung overhead, illuminating all three.

The Ranger's small, pink lips remained tightly pursed. Some of her pale locks covered her face. With her hair so disheveled, he could see her pointed ears. A silver stud was in each lobe.

Suddenly, she looked up. It was a slow, deliberate motion. Hyram stood up, cleared his throat, and smiled.

"Hello𑁋"

"Don't talk to it, sir," Marsh said hastily.

"Greetings, humans."

"Shut up," Marsh snapped, pointing at her. "Not another word."

"Enough, Staff Sergeant. She can do no harm to us in this state."

"Xenos can't be trusted, sir!"

"Hush," Hyram said, holding up his hand. Exasperated, Marsh rolled his eyes and took a step back. The platoon leader smiled politely and bent over a little. "I am Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram."

The Ranger met his eyes for a few moments. Her lips tugged into a half-smile.

"My name is Maerys."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Well, we've been acquainted one or or another, Lieutenant. From what I've overheard, you're the one who snared me in the trap," Maerys said. Hyram chuckled a little. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"This is my platoon sergeant, Marsh Silas."

"Don't tell her my name!" Marsh hissed.

"What a...peculiar name," Maerys said, looking at him. Grimacing, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall beside the door. Taking out his pipe, he filled it with tabac leaves, lit, and began puffing on it. After he waved the match out, he flicked it at the Ranger. It hit her white coat, bounced off, and fell on the floor.

Frowning, Hyram turned around.

"Act appropriately, Staff Sergeant."

"Sir, why're you bein' nice to that _thing? _Xenos are scum, enemies of the Imperium. Did you not know that?"

"Work in a cramped office staring at statistical sheets, transfer orders, and material forms for over two standard decades and you try remembering everything your headmaster taught you," Hyram said, standing up straight.

"Xenos are a tricky lot, sir, and these ones are the most clever of the lot, just like Barlocke said." Marsh stepped forward and jabbed her in the shoulder with his finger. "How do you even know our tongue? I didn't think your puny brain could wrap around it?"

For a few moments, Maerys stared at him. She wore an unimpressed expression, with a furrowed brow and tightened lips. Eventually, she quirked an eyebrow and shook her head.

"Mon-keigh, I've lived many centuries and come across many different peoples. The galaxy courses with countless, variant tongues. Even your Gothic tongue has divergent, multitudinous forms. Out of all languages I've learned, yours was the _least _challenging by far."

Marsh blinked in surprise.

"You're just sayin' that, xeno wench."

"I'm speaking in your tongue at this very moment," she said. "Believe it."

"All my instructors said𑁋"

"And how can my brain be so minuscule in comparison to yours if my people are a 'tricky lot,' as you say? Certainly, to be clever, you must be intelligent."

"Well𑁋"

"How many tongues do you happen to know, mon-keigh?"

Before he could say anything, she pressed on. "If you think your intellect superior, fetch my Long Rifle and read the Runes along the strap to me."

"He actually cannot read all that much," Hyram said instinctively.

Marsh turned his gaze slowly towards his commanding officer. As if finally aware of what he said, Hyram winced. Embarrassed, he shrugged.

"Thank you for bringing that up," Marsh growled.

He turned away and paced for a few moments. Hyram stood by, arms folded across his chest. Although he was not smiling, he clearly looked amused. Maerys, rather unconcerned, watched the platoon sergeant angrily walk back and forth.

Eventually, he took his pipe from his lips and pointed the neck at her.

"We caught you, so what do ya think o' us now, harlot?"

Maerys chuckled pleasantly.

"Certainly surprising," she said in a chiming voice.

The confidence Marsh felt when he came up with his answer flew away like Army Meadow's yellow flower petals in the sea breeze.

Inhaling sharply, he puffed on his pipe and glowered at her. Hyram continued to glance between him and the Ranger. Before he could figure out something to say, Maerys was the first to speak up. "I shall say, I am quite intrigued as to why I still draw breath. In my experience, you Imperials tend to shoot anything that doesn't look like you. Even when it does, you still end up shooting."

"Orders," Marsh grumbled.

Walking in front of her, he opened his mouth and let the pipe smoke rise from within. When a cloud hung between the two, he blew it into her face. For a moment, she closed her eyes and turned her face. Turning back, she glared at him. Tapping her middle with the neck of the pipe, the platoon sergeant leaned closer. "Where's the rest of your warhost?"

"Staff Sergeant, we don't have any orders to interrogate her.

"I know not of any warhost of my people gathering on the planet."

"The bitch lies," Marsh said to Hyram. Putting his pipe back to his lips, he stood up. "She's hiding what she knows."

"I assure you, my people have no interest in your planet. Our intentions lie elsewhere," Maerys implored.

"Pretty typical for scouts to come before an invasion."

"Invasion? Preposterous."

"Just tell us your numbers and where to expect your warhost."

"I cannot, for there is no such warhost."

Balling his hand into a fist, he swung it forward and hit the Ranger in the gut. A gasp escaped her lips and she bent over slightly.

Before he could land another blow, Hyram bolted in front of him, grabbed his shirt, and pushed him back.

"What are you doing, sir!?"

"We have orders to _guard _the prisoner, not to interrogate her and not to harm her!"

"Barlocke gave no such orders."

"Well, _I'm _making it an order. You will not lay another hand on her, understand?"

"Sir!?"

"Understand, Staff Sergeant!?"

Marsh took Hyram's hands from his chest and smoothed out his tunic. Although his face was drawn in an aggravated grimace, he was surprised by the officer's tenacity and firmness. As much as he disagreed with him and despite his disgust that the Lieutenant did not seem to share his apathy for the xenos, he was a Cadian Shock Trooper. Orders were orders.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Good." He fixed his own tunic and cleared his throat. "Apologies."

Marsh just nodded. He looked past him at Maerys. The Ranger was sitting back up now, plain-faced and seemingly undisturbed by the blow. Rubbing his chin, the platoon sergeant looked back.

"Don't you want to know if Aledari are coming? We need to be ready. Who knows, what if they attack _before _the Alien Hunter arrives?"

Hyram scratched his cheek and glanced over his shoulder.

"We don't have any orders to interrogate her."

"We don't have any orders _not _to interrogate her."

Hyram seemed nervous. Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, lives could be depending on this."

"There is a warhost."

Both of the Cadians looked at Maerys. She was looking their way, her light blue eyes sharp and icy. "But it does not come for Cadia. It gathers for a destination far from these stars, to counter a foe you could never comprehend. I shall not say more, but I assure you, the warhost does not come for your planet or your people."

Hyram and Marsh looked at one another. The latter remained unconvinced, crossing his arms and shaking his head. But Hyram stepped over to her, knelt, and put a hand on her knee.

"Is this true?"

"I was not here to observe your people. I was making my way back to my home, Craftworld Ulthwé. The only reason I stayed was for that half-starved child roaming this waste." She leaned closer to him. "Our warhost must meet a threat far greater than you could ever pose to my people."

Her voice was slow, stern, deep, and convicted. It was enough to make Marsh Silas pay attention. Staring into her icy blue eyes, he waited for Hyram to say something. All he could see was the back of his platoon leader's head. He made no movement and no sound.

For a few moments, Marsh was worried she cast some spell over him and was now in control. He did not know if an Aeldari could perform such an act, but he knew they were capable of anything. Slowly, his hand fell to the holster attached to his belt. In a deliberate manner, he unbuttoned the leather latch that covered it.

When Hyram finally turned around and bore no signs of change, he felt very relieved. But there was a look of shock on the officer's face. Standing up, he ran a hand down his face and looked at Marsh Silas. It was as if he reached some kind of epiphany and the realization seized his entire soul.

"We cannot let her be tortured."

* * *

**Word Count: **6, 840

**Lore Notes: **On the subject of medals, my sources stem from two separate wikis. One describes the Crimson Skull as a general medal, while another lists it under decorations awarded during the Medusa V Campaign. Yet its description does not specifically state this was a medal solely awarded in the Medusa V Campaign. As such, I have interpreted this information to mean the Crimson Skull is a general Imperial award, that was used as an example but not limited to the Medusa V Campaign, thus it can be awarded to Imperials outside of that campaign (which, in the context of this story, will not occur for nearly fifty years.) Any feedback regarding lore interpretation would be appreciated.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

* * *

"I believe her, Staff Sergeant."

"Why, _how_, could you ever trust a xeno?"

Marsh Silas and Lieutenant Hyram were standing outside of the cell, speaking in hushed tones. The latter was standing against the wall beside the door while the former stood in front of him, arms akimbo. While the platoon sergeant glared, his superior officer jammed his hands into his pockets and kept his head lowered. It seemed as though he was embarrassed to be having the conversation and just could not meet Marsh's gaze.

Taking his pipe from his lips, Marsh Silas turned it around in his hands as he muttered and shook his head. "Sir, all I've done is fight'em. Greenskins, Aeldari, it matters not. Different names, different looks, but they're all the same. You want to know why?"

"Because they want to _kill us_, sir. They are enemies of the Imperium and they would do anything to kill us. I'm not gonna let that happen." He pointed towards the entrance to the cell, still wide open. "She may be bound, but that don't mean she could be tryin' to pull somethin'. Captain Giles told me misinformation can get a lot of Guardsmen killed."

Hyram folded his arms across his chest and ran his hands up and down his arms as if he was cold. Turning his head, although still refusing to meet Marsh's eyes, he leaned to the door. Peeking around the corner, he shot a quick glance at Maerys the Ranger. Following his gaze, Marsh leaned to the side as well. Still bound to the chair, she stared forward although her icy blue eyes did not seem to notice them. Their expression was faded, distant; her mind was elsewhere, beyond the cell's confines.

Both leaned back behind the wall. Hyram shook his head while Marsh continued to puff on his pipe.

"She does not have much reason to lie."

"She has plenty of reasons to lie!" Marsh hissed. "She's a prisoner. She's in and around us. We ain't got no way o' checkin' if she's lying or not. We ain't got them tools the Alien Hunter has. When he comes, he'll make her crack."

At the mention of the Inquisitor, Hyram finally looked up swiftly. Violet eyes glaring, he let his arms drop, stood up straighter, and raised his chin.

"No, I will not let this happen. No tools, no torture. It will not come to that."

"Why? What do you care about some dirty, filthy xeno bitch?"

"Dirty? Filthy? You keep saying these things."

"Because they're true, sir!"

Every day, both in the cathedral to the training yard and to the battlefield, from priests to instructors to Commissars, it was preached xenos were one of the greatest enemies. Like Chaos, like traitors, heretics, and mutants, they were to be eradicated. For humanity, they reserved their greatest scorn and would stop at nothing to wipe the Imperium of Man from the face of the galaxy. In the songs they chanted on the march, they mocked the xeno races they fought. When the Commissars made their speeches to reinvigorate the men, they belittled xenos as barbaric and inferior. Priests opened their religious tomes and slammed their fists on the altar, decrying them as unworthy and declared the God-Emperor wanted the xenos to be slaughtered. Even the posters plastered on Kasr walls showed the differences between loyal, xeno-hating subjects and the nasty, soiled citizens who displayed sympathy for their enemies. More often, it showed fantastical depictions of Aeldari, with high, pointed ears and animalistic features, being crushed underfoot by marching Cadian columns. Even the _Infantryman's Uplifting Primer _showcased such scenes.

He explained it all to Hyram. From youth to adulthood, Marsh heard it in address after address. Each time he heard it, his resolve to kill grew deeper and his hatred for the xenos became all the more vibrant. Just looking at the Ranger, bound, silent, and helpless within the cell, made his heart swell with animosity.

Looking back at Hyram, he was surprised by the officer's shocked expression. Suddenly, the platoon leader reached out and took Marsh Silas by the shoulder. His violet eyes bore a tragic, imploring countenance.

"Marsh Silas, you have encountered these foes many a time, yes?"

"Not as much as those Chaos worshiping traitors and soulless heretics."

"Have the posters, the _Primer_, any of what your teachers said ever been wrong."

Marsh Silas thought back to his encounters with Orks and Aeldari. Many of the heroic posters belittling the Ork menace showed a brave Guardsman standing at even height with a drooling Greenskin. The first time he encountered an Ork WAAAGH! He was far more terrified of them than he imagined. Clad in piecemeal armor and wielding massive axes, they charged with a determined fury not incomprehensible to a human. Standing two times, three times, or even four times bigger than a man, they were terrifyingly quick. Entries in the _Primer _detailing the Orks declared them dumb, unable to coordinate, and lacking any tactical sense. During that first engagement, Marsh learned they did not need tactics. Wave after wave of Greenskins came on, zealous in their thirst for combat. To see rabid xenos taking Cadian positions was something he never imagined.

And the Aeldari, who were depicted as so weak they could not even stand up straight, also proved to be a far different foe. Raiding parties were rare, at least in the sectors Marsh Silas served in, but nobody ever detected their entry on the planet's surface. Attacks they committed were precise and lightning fast. Before defenders could even call for reinforcements or artillery and air support, they were either wiped out or destroyed to a point they were combat ineffective. Even if somebody was able to communicate fast enough, the Aeldari would melt away long before the first Vulture gunships, Avengers, or Marauder Bombers could support them.

Standard ambush doctrine dictated the best way to escape one was to charge the enemy. Militarum drill instructors said feeble xenos such as Aeldari would break the moment they were threatened by Cadian bayonets. The first charge Marsh Silas ever made against them proved their oratory entirely incorrect. If they were determined to, the Aeldari held their ground and would not retreat unless imperiled by overwhelming odds. Weapon systems they used were far beyond Marsh's comprehension and many fell around him. By the time he was close enough for bayonet range, he needed to take cover for he was one of the few remaining. Even then, the Aeldari could fight in formation and were adept at counterattacking, feigning retreat, flanking, and wheeling around the battlefield. Vehicles moved with such speed the turret rotation speed on some armoured assets the Cadians fielded could not keep up.

To refuse Hyram was to lie. Marsh's lips moved a little but he made no sound. Folding his arms across his chest, the officer pursed his lips, raised an eyebrow, and looked at him expectantly.

Eventually, the platoon sergeant sighed, lowered his gaze, and nodded. Just as quickly, he looked back up and pointed the neck of his pipe at him.

"Sir, that don't change the fact they're a bunch o' disgusting, vile things."

Hyram put an arm on his shoulder and walked him over in front of the doorway. With his other arm, he motioned towards Maerys. "Look at her, Marsh Silas. Really, really, look. What's so disgusting about her?"

Marsh looked at his commanding officer for a few moments, wary and unconvinced. Shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, he slowly looked at the Ranger. At that very same moment, Maerys lifted her gaze and met his violet eyes. Even in the dull, unflattering light of the weak industrial bulb hanging overhead, her blue eyes seemed to twinkle. Not a single blemish, freckle, or any kind of mark other than the scar from her left cheekbone up to her eye decorated her skin. Even the scar, faded some but still noticeable, added an attractive, subtle ferocity to her otherwise soft, placid features. Her skin was almost as pale as snow and seemed so smooth. Having her black armor removed left her in her long coat and all-weather suit, but past it Marsh could see her slender frame and curving thighs. Yet, she was not frail; her posture denoted strength and vitality. The white-blonde hair cascaded naturally down to her shoulders, waving, thick, and voluminous. It was as if she was not out in the Cadian hinterland for weeks, as her locks seemed plump and healthy, whereas theirs was left coarse and straw-like until they came back to base. Eventually, she offered a charming smile made all that more attractive by the light, natural pink hue to her lips.

"Them pointy ears is quite unnatural," Marsh finally said, looking at Hyram.

"By the Emperor!" Hyram groaned, throwing his arms into the air and walked a few paces away from the cell. Turning around, Marsh watched him rub his forehead. When the officer turned around, he looked very perturbed. "Doesn't this feel wrong? To standby and let someone be tortured for information they simply don't have?"

"Sir, they're an _enemy _of the Imperium. Of course I don't."

"Regardless if she's telling the truth or not, you don't care that she's going to be tortured?"

"Why would I?" Marsh jerked his thumb over his shoulder and pointed at her. "I've fought her kind before; I've lost good men𑁋friends𑁋to their lot. And she shot three of our men. You remember that?"

"Yes, I do."

"You remember?"

"Of course, I bloody do!"

For a moment, they fell silent. Both looked away awkwardly. It was Hyram who spoke first. "I have no love for xenos either, but punishing someone when they're telling the truth? Does that not seem wrong?"

"Not really. She's a xeno after all."

"Put aside the fact that she is an alien."

"Huh? That don't make no sense. That thing is a xeno and nothin' else."

"Try, Marsh Silas. Imagine...imagine..." Hyram rubbed his chin as thought. His eyes popped and then he pointed. "Imagine if she was one of your men and he was being punished for an infraction he did not commit. Even though he was innocent and telling the truth, the Commissar was still going to flog him. What then?"

"But she ain't one o' our men𑁋"

"Just _try _to imagine. Look at her, and imagine she was under your command."

Reluctantly, the platoon sergeant turned around halfway and looked at Maerys again. For a few moments, he just stared at her plainly. At first, he just wanted to look at her for a short period of time to give Hyram the impression he was actually giving his point any consideration. Then, he would turn around, shrug, and tell him he did not.

But as one minute passed, then a second, his eyes softened slightly and his eyebrows began to raise. Suddenly, it was not Maerys the Ranger bound to the chair, but young Drummer Boy, who was always smiling, tuning the Vox-caster, and fighting as hard as he could. Despite his youth and lack of experience compared to the other men, no one doubted his dependability or determination. Next, he saw Babcock, their color-bearer, who was stout, stalwart, and fearless. Everyone knew him as a loyal subject, not just to the Emperor and the Imperial Creed, but to his fellow Shock Troopers. Combat situations could become dire at any moment, but all one had to do was gaze at Babcock waving the regimental standard to find their courage again. Then, Arnold Yoxall, his close, true friend, tied to the chair, head bowed and face ashen. Why would he be there, detained and questioned like some Hiver scum, when he strictly observed the Imperial Creed and fought just as hard and bravely as any other Guardsman? Arnold Yoxhall, who stood beside Marsh Silas when the 540th Youth Corps made its final stand𑁋could he stand by and let him suffer when he was innocent?

Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Honeycutt, Efflemen, Monty Peck, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, and Stainthorpe, Bullard, Derryhouse, Hitch; even imagining the new arrival, Junior Commissar Carstensen there, filled Marsh Silas with dread. Bloody Platoon were not preachers but they were loyal and faithful. None of their number would ever go so far as to violate the tenets of the Imperial Creed.

For a brief moment, the fire in his heart went out. Punishment and torture, despite the truth𑁋it was wrong. He would not want any of his men to undergo any of the sort, even if they had committed a mild violation. As much as he respected and feared Commissars and Inquisitors, these were his men and his foremost duty after serving and obeying the Emperor was to keep them alive.

Soon, his gaze hardened. Yet, before him was not one of his men. It was an Aeldari Ranger: a xeno. One of the tenets of the Imperial Creed was to vilify the alien. She was not one of his men, she was not human, and she did not revere the Emperor, the one, true god. But each his mind traveled to this realm of thought, her face quickly took on one of his men's. Immediately, the anger rising in his chest dissipated and was replaced by a sense of wrongness.

Slowly, he took his pipe from his mouth and looked back at Hyram. The platoon leader seemed to understand. He stepped towards him, smiling. "You see? You see?"

"I suppose I do," Marsh said. "But sir, she is just a xeno. And a prisoner at that. We ain't supposed to help'em. It's wrong."

"But letting someone who is no harm to us, who is telling us the truth, be subject to torture, that is wrong as well." Hyram put one hand over his heart, his fingers disturbing the Eagle Ordinary medal hanging on his chest. He put his other hand on Marsh's shoulder. "I pray to the Emperor each morning, each night, before each meal. I revere him with all my heart and soul. Was it not for him, I would not have the honor to serve with men of valor. Here, I can give back unto Him, who gave life to me. But this? Enemy she may be, but I believe she speaks truthfully. To see her tortured, that's wrong. My soul, my _soul_, Marsh Silas, would feel wrong. I am not sure I could live knowing I stood by when I could have stopped something unnecessary."

Hyram squeezed his shoulder tightly. "My soul, Marsh Silas, I could not live with myself. It is heavy with the weight of the truth we withheld from those pitiful refugees. Does it not bring sorrow to your own?"

Of course, it did. As much as Marsh Silas wanted to deny him for the sake of refusing him and preserving his own faith, each time he thought of his actions he despised himself. Following a line of reasoning, he could find justification; spare the poor mothers the full truth and some of their woes would be availed. Peace did not come from such rationalizations, however. Even if he could move on, focus on the present, and perform his duty, his regret surfaced at night when all was quiet and the men were asleep. How he wept that first night. Sometimes, his chest tightened and he could feel his eyes brim with tears. But they did not fall. Resisting urge after urge to weep took effort he grew tired of.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Maerys already looking at him. She was not fragile or ailing from lack of food, drink, or rest. The longer he looked at her, the more he began to think she was far stronger than he thought before. Her light blue eyes met his violet ones, within, he could see no hostility, malice, or resentment. There was no pleading expression asking for aid nor one that displayed any kind of hatred.

Nervously rubbing his jaw, he turned back to Hyram. He squeezed his shoulder again. "I cannot let something unjust occur in these next few days. My soul would be forever restless, no matter how often or how fervently I prayed."

Marsh rubbed the back of his neck. Glancing over his shoulder, he peered at Maerys again. He expected her to be staring at them but instead she was looking down at her feet. Sighing, he ran his hand down his face and looked back.

"You ain't talkin' of letting her go, are you?"

"By the Emperor and all the Saints, no!" Hyram exclaimed. "That would be treason. No, she's our prisoner and she shall remain so. Circumventing the torture, that is all I wish."

"Circum-"

"Bypass, avoid."

Marsh nodded hastily.

"And how are we supposed to get around that? We're just a couple o' gunmen; we gonna walk up to Inquisitor Fabricius and say, 'no, ya can't do that,' because I get the feeling Ghent'll find a reason to use that Bolt pistol after all."

"I haven't quite figured out how yet. But we've got two days and two nights to find some way to do it. There's two of us, we can surely think of something."

Hyram said this with an optimistic smile. Marsh rubbed his jaw, took out his pipe, and exhaled away from his commanding officer.

"Sir, I don't know if I can do this. We don't protect xenos, we don't help xenos. The Emperor would not want this."

"Maybe He _would _want this!"

"That's madness, sir. I can't."

"Are you afraid?"

"You don't even have a plan."

"I will."

"I'm not _dying _over some damned xeno!"

"Marsh Silas?"

Hyram let go and turned around, letting Marsh look down the hall. At the corner of the corridor was Drummer Boy. He looked handsome with his moistened air and fresh tan fatigues.

The Voxman cleared his throat and pointed back the way he came. "Word just came down from the top: the refugees are being relocated to Kasr Sonnen. Barlocke came to me an' asked if you wanted to see the lady and her boy off. Probably won't seem'em again."

Marsh Silas looked at Hyram. The platoon leader stepped aside.

"Go ahead, Staff Sergeant. She is bound, I doubt I'll have much trouble watching her. Relieve me at nightfall and assist Junior Commissar Carstensen with whatever she needs."

"Barlocke said that both of us should𑁋"

"I'll be speaking with him in short order. Go."

The tone in his voice was blunt and damaged. As he brushed by Marsh Silas and stood in the doorway, the platoon sergeant could not help but gaze over his shoulder at him. All he could see was the officer's back and his hands by his sides. Both slowly curled into fists. Eventually, his head lowered a little.

Marsh exhaled, letting the pipe smoke flow from his mouth and nose. He did not feel ashamed, but he knew he let the Lieutenant down. For that, he was sorry, but could not bring himself to say as much. Turning, he walked down the corridor and headed outside.

###

Outside, many of the Guardsmen present at the ceremony were resuming their usual duties all over base. Shock Troopers were reinforcing their positions with extra sandbags, razor wire, and extra mines on the beach. In some locations along the trenchline that ran around the entire base, sandbag bunkers were being constructed with heavy metal sheets as rooftops. In the regiment's two week absence, some of the original makeshift bunkers were cleared. Moldings were in place and were being filled with rockcrete to make true hardpoints along the line.

A party of Guardsmen were clearing out the area reserved for the refugees. Tents were pulled down, campfires kicked out, tools gathered up, and the general area cleared of anything. Another work party was standing by, reading to extend the trench line and turn the location into a new defensive block.

Five of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment's complement of Chimeras were arranged in a convoy in front of the regimental headquarters. Beside each one was a group of refugees in fresher, less worn clothes and carrying what few possessions they had. Some had personal backpacks and others carried suitcases, but most just had a canvas sack with an attached.

At the final Chimera, he spotted Asiah and Galo. Walmsley Minor was already there, kneeling in front of the boy. He was giving him one of his ration packets. After the young lad said thank you, he hugged the Guardsman. Asiah also embraced him. Just as she withdrew, Marsh Silas came up.

Galo immediately stood at attention and saluted. Chuckling, Marsh returned the gesture. He took his pipe from his lips and dumped on the ground so he didn't get smoke in their faces. Crouching down, he smiled at him.

"Got everything you need?"  
"Yes, sir!" Galo grinned, exposing his toothy grin. He was missing quite a few, but Marsh remembered being at his age and how often his teeth fell away.

"Part of me wishes we could get to enjoy a few more days with ya, but like my papa used to say, the Emperor's got plans for us all. Doesn't he, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take cary, laddy."

The two hugged. When Marsh Silas stood up, he mussed up the boy's hair which made him giggle. Looking at Asiah, he returned her kind smile. His first instinct was to embrace her, but instead he held his hand out. In turn, she brushed it aside and hugged him anyways. When they parted, he found her grasping his hand in both of her's. "May the Emperor bless you and yours, and your future, Miss Asiah."

"And to you, Silas."

"I shall never forget your faith."

"Twas not faith alone," she said, leaning closer and speaking in a hushed tone.

"What else could there be?" Marsh Silas asked, smiling in bemusement.

"Love," she whispered, though it was nearly drowned out by the rumbling Chimera engines. "Love is a faith all on its own, Silas Cross. You might say they are interwoven, one in the same. Trust, love, faith, just different titles for the same article."

At that, she planted a small kiss on his cheek. One of the crewmen in the lead Chimera called for the refugees to board. As they filtered in, Asiah picked up her bag and put a hand on Galo's back. "May the Emperor keep you," she said, "come Galo."

"Bye!"

Marsh Silas, Drummer Boy, and Walmsley Minor all stepped away from the Chimera. Asiah and Galo walked up the ramp with their group of refugees and it closed behind them. Engines roared and exhaust lifted from the rear of the APC's. Master Sergeant Tindall, standing in the turret of the first vehicle, waved his hand and ducked down. A moment later, the Chimeras began rolling down the road. The trio watched them pass through the fortified gate and disappear down the wind road between the yellow flower fields.

For a little while, they stood there looking down the road long after the Chimeras were out of sight.

"You ever feel like ya known someone for many, many years, when it's only been a couple o' days?" Walmsley Minor asked suddenly.

"Yes," Marsh Silas and Drummer Boy answered in unison.

"Come, let's return to the barracks," Marsh said, turning around. Minor was on his left, Drummer Boy was on his right. Together, they trundled slowly towards their post.

"You see low, Marsh Silas," Minor said.

"It ain't nothin'."

"Was the Lieutenant having words with ya? Did ya do somethin' wrong?" Drummer Boy asked.

"No. Well, yes. I think. I'm not in trouble if that's what you mean." Marsh sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"You can always talk to us," Minor said chartiably. He smiled kindly and tapped him on the back. "You're always there for us, so we're always here for you."

"Thanks. I guess I'm just wondering about what's right."

"One only has to look to the Emperor to know what is right and what's not," Drummer Boy said confidently.

"No doubt about that. I ain't encountered anything in my life that could be solved by faith." Walmsley Minor put in. But he thought for a moment and then shrugged.

"Well, faith don't exactly stop bullets, now doesn't it?" Drummer Boy said, leaning forward so he could look at him past Marsh Silas. The younger Walmsley brother frowned and glared at him.

"The Emperor knows what's right," Marsh began, "he wouldn't a' bothered writing anythin' down if it wasn't right. I've heard the preachers thump their chests listing the tenets. 'Abhor the xeno,' they said. But is that all we have to do? Are we forbidden from doing anything else? Do I just take it at its word?"

"All of those tenets are meant to be taken plainly. Not much interpreting to be done there, I suppose," Minor said, shrugging. "Killing them, fighting them, all o' that's just orders."

"Well, if that's the case, if the tenet just said hate'em, what would it be like if we didn't have orders?" Drummer Boy asked. "If we wasn't goin' out of our way to kill'em, and they weren't trying to kill us, wouldn't we just leave each other alone?"

"Who can say?" Walmsley Minor replied.

"If there was something you knew you could stop, something that was wrong, and it would not be altogether wrong to stop it, would you do it?" Marsh Silas asked them.

"If it didn't violate the Imperial Creed, or go against orders, and didn't put my comrades in peril, I guess I would," Drummer Boy said after a moment.

"Guess my answer's the same."

Marsh Silas just nodded, his brow low and heavy.

Eventually, they journeyed up the slope, entered the barracks, and climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, they headed to their comb. Along the way, they met many other members of Bloody Platoon. Some were sharpening their bayonets, cleaning their weapons, priming grenades, or performing purification rituals to satisfy their Machine Spirits. From their weapon maintenance kits, they took out tubes and bottles filled with holy oils. Taking stark white cloths from their kits, they doused the cloths with some of the oil, then proceeded to run it over the barrel and the sides. Extra special care was taken to polish the golden Aquila that adorned the sides of their M36 lasguns. Others burned incense in small, cylindrical chambers mounted on necklace-sized chains. Smoke filtered out of the holes in the chambers.

Almost all of the Shock Troopers were smoking lho-sticks and the acrid smell of burning tabac and lho-leaves permeated throughout the tunnel network. A thin, gray cloud of smoke clung to the ceiling and swirled in the lamp light.

Men walked around shirtless, chattered incessantly, joked, laughed, and playfully mocked each other. They tossed each other rations, canteens, cleaning tools, helmets, clothing, grooming kits, and other assorted items they carried around.

Coming to their comb, the two found Walmsley Major, Yoxall, Foley, and Logue at rest. Walmsley Major was polishing his laspistol while Yoxall inspected some of his explosives. He was the only one not smoking. Logue was adjusting the sights on his custom autopistol while Foley napped in his bunk. Drummer Boy immediately went to his Vox-caster, turned up the speaker volume, and began monitoring the battle network. Walmsley Minor joined his brother.

"Where is Junior Commissar Carstensen?"

"Honeycutt, Babcock, an' her made her a space in the medical comb. She'll be staying there for the time being," Yoxall.

"Time being?" Marsh chuckled. "I think she's going to be a rather permanent sight, men."

He could see the apprehension on their faces. Walmsley's Major and Minor looked at one another and rolled their eyes. Logue muttered something under his breath and shook his head. Foley kept snoring. Yoxall's eyebrows bounced as he returned to his work.

"Hurrah," Drummer Boy replied, resting his chin in his palm as he stared at his Vox-set.

"Keep that to a minimum," Marsh ordered as he doffed his soft-cover non-commissioned officer's hat on a hook in the boarding beside his bunk. He was surprised to find his own sleeping kit already placed back into the cutting in the dirt wall. The sheet was folded exactly to the specifications in the _Infantryman's Uplifting Primer_.

Turning around, he grinned and planted his hands on his hips. "Now who went and did this? Was it you, Drummer Boy?"

"Er, twas the Junior Commissar, Marsh Silas," the Voxman replied.

"Twas?"

"Twas. Saw it with mine-own eyes."

Marsh looked over his shoulder at his rack again. He looked back.

"You sure?"

"She did it right in front of ya, ya blind fool," Yoxall said. "You was too busy gussying up for the awards ceremony."

"Hey!" Marsh said, pointing at him and glaring playfully. "We was _all _gussying up."

A few of the men snickered as Marsh Silas turned around. From his gear, he picked up a small, wooden box. It was much smaller in comparison to the medallion crate the regiment kept, but it was of the same type of redwood. A golden crest of the Aquila was attached to the top of the lid. Popping it open, he carefully took each of his medals from his chest and placed them into the box. Once they were all inside, he snapped the lid shut and tucked the box away.

All the Shock Troopers carried one of the boxes, which they called the award chest. Each man who was decorated was to place his medals and ribbons that were not required to be worn at all times into the chest. Only when he was further awarded or was at a particular function, which was rare, were they to put them on.

After putting it away, Marsh Silas decided to check in with Carstensen. He took a walk down the hall, greeting other members of Bloody Platoon as he went. Many bumped their fists against his or simply said, 'Marsh Silas,' as he passed by.

When he reached the wooden-trimmed entryway to the medical space, he tapped on it.

"Dammit, boy, you know that bothers me. Get your ass in here," came in Honeycutt's voice. Chuckling, Marsh Silas walked in. The medic, sitting at his desk looking over an inventory invoice, tipped his low-peaked cap back and glared up at him. "Doesn't look like something's wrong with you, so you best have some kind of condition or you'll be _leaving _here with a wound for fucking bothering me."

"I always thought you were the most charming man in the platoon," Marsh replied, smiling sweetly. Honeycutt just shook his head and resumed his reading.

The supplies that once filled the room were now pushed back against the far wall and were stacked very neatly. Every crate, footlocker, ammunition box, water barrel, and other containers were accessible without having to move the others around. Everything related to Honeycutt's duty was pushed to the left. The examination table, which was just a typical wooden table they scrounged some time ago, was right beside his desk. Much of his medical supplies were placed on his desk or the examination table. Underneath were satchels and kit bags stuffed with pill capsules, syringes, bandage rolls, holy oils, hymn books, and surgical instruments.

On the other side, there was more space. A cutting in the wall was decorated with her sleeping bag. Her rucksack and armor was on the floor beneath it. Her Commissariat cap hung a hook nailed into the wall. To the right of it was another wooden table with a burning candle on it, several texts, a pile of parchment, and a field quill. Junior Commissar Carstensen was busy writing something.

Clearing his throat, the platoon sergeant clicked his heels and saluted. "Ma'am!"

Setting her quill and rising, Carstensen returned the gesture.

"At ease. Come in, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh Silas walked in and stood beside her as she sat back down. There was another chair between the table and her bunk. She pointed at it. "Sit."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have anything to report?"

"Lieutenant Hyram and I have been tasked by Inquisitor Barlocke to guard the prisoner. He is taking the day shift while I take the night watch. Is there any way I can assist you in his absence?"

"Not currently. You can go about your typical duties, Staff Sergeant," she said, her eyes remaining on the page as she continued to write.

"Yes, ma'am." Marsh Silas stood up and went to salute. Instead, she leaned back at him.

"Actually, stay. I might have a use for you."

Once again, the platoon sergeant sat back down.

"How may I be o' service, ma'am?"

"Does this platoon have any particular marching songs, creeds, mottos, anything of the like I should be aware of?"

"Well, you may o' heard it already, but Bloody Platoon, bein' the First Platoon o' the First Company, we like to say we're the, 'first to spill blood, first to shed blood.' We say that to fire ourselves up and, well, it's pretty much true. We're the hard-hitters of the regiment."

Carstensen took another piece of parchment from the pile and quickly scribbled something. Marsh could not make it out beyond a few words, although he was sure it was their motto.

"Any malcontents or laggards?"

"None, ma'am. Bloody Platoon is made up of veterans, men who have been at it for ten, nine, eight, standard years. Drummer Boy's the least experienced o' us but he's a very fine Guardsman and he knows a Vox-set far better than any other Voxman in the regiment."

She made note of this too. Afterwards, she set her quill down and folded her hands together. Her emerald-ocean eyes narrowed at him.

"As a Junior Commissar attached specifically to your platoon, it is important I'm made aware of any unique unit aspects on top of your homeworld's cultural affinities. While I'm quite versed in the latter, if you think of anything that may be of use in my understanding of the men under our command, please tell me immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," Marsh Silas said.

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant, that'll be all."

"Yes, ma'am." Marsh was about to stand up, but quickly sat back down. "Thank you, once again, for recommending me for decorations. I feel very honored."

"Do not thank me, thank the Emperor," Carstensen said, turning her head and looking tersely at him. "The Emperor demands we take such actions and when we do, we are rewarded. I am merely an extension. And as I said, brave acts should be rewarded accordingly. These medals you, myself, and the men wear are to remind us that our service to the Emperor and Imperium have meaning. When a Guardsmen looks at his decorations, he is reminded of what his services provide to the Imperium as a whole. Next time he goes into battle, he fights with greater vigor." She looked at him with a softer expression. "These medals remind him he is a righteous warrior, that the battles, the acts he performs, are necessary. Even if those acts must be sending a man to his death, or risking your own life for something that is unmistakably right. You see, Marsh Silas, there are other ways to inspire a Guardsman to fight than threatening him. Let him look upon the medals, let him remember why he acted valorously before, and let him do it again."

"Yes, ma'am," Marsh Silas said slowly, "I understand."

"Good. Go on."

Marsh Silas stood up. As he walked out, he noticed Honeycutt also getting ready.

"Going somewhere?"

"The field medicae center. I wish to check on our casualties."

"Anythin' wrong with them?"  
"Nothing of the sort. I just wish to ensure they're being treated well. Their recoveries will be swift, I assure you still." Honeycutt chuckled as he walked on. "Bastards are refusing their pain medication, claiming they don't need it. What brave, bloody fools."

The medic disappeared down the hall. Marsh Silas took one look back at Carstensen. Instead of wearing her hair in a bun, she was letting it hang loose. Her orange locks fell around her face and covered the collar of her black, leather jacket. One swept across her forehead, and she tucked it back behind her ear. For a moment, her head turned slightly to the right.

For a moment, he thought she may look over her shoulder at him. He could just see the tip of her nose, the side of her cheek, and the corner of her lips. After a few moments, she looked forward again, bowed her head, and continued writing.

Marsh Silas tore his gaze away and went back to his comb. If any of his friends greeted him as he entered, he did not hear them. Reaching into his rucksack, he pulled out the small redwood chest. Opening it up, he picked up the Crimson Skull medal. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he ran his thumb over it, feeling the bumps of the skull and cross crests. His thumb came to rest on the red ruby in the center. Bowing his head, he looked at the rest of the medals resting side by side in the chest. Despite being tucked away inside, the open lid let the dim light of the lamps hanging on the walls and ceiling in. Each medal glinted and glowed in the dull lighting.

Looking up, he remembered seeing Castle near the edge of the square. He held his leg as blood leaked through his fingers. Violet eyes wide with terror, white teeth clenched that only parted when he screamed. Leaving him out there, to suffer his wound, to bleed out his last, when there were dozens upon dozens of able men who could save him was wrong. To leave him there was to let something preventable occur. Doing nothing and leaving him to an unnecessary end was an impossibility.

Marsh Silas placed the medal back in the chest and closed the lid firmly.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,344


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

* * *

It seemed like dusk would never arrive.

Bloody Platoon rotated to trench duty in the late afternoon and Marsh Silas found himself inspecting their defenses. Half of the men observed the channel through lasgun scopes and magnoculars while the other half continued to reinforce their positions. Trenches were dug deeper and widened, wooden planking was added to the walls and to the parapets, and filled sandbags for their heavy weapons positions and observation posts. Some covered the tops of their improvised bunkers with mesh netting or used some of the spare wood to create rooftops.

As diligent Cadian Guardsmen, it was not long before Bloody Platoon exhausted most of their work details. Hard labor was something they complained about often, as they would rather quit 'trenching,' as they called it and seek out the enemy for a fight. Just because they complained did not mean they did not approach it in a lethargic attitude; they worked hard and quickly. Yet, this would often leave them with nothing to do and a rotation in the trenches could quickly become boring.

Those who were not keeping watch were left to their own devices. Marsh Silas ensured the men organized their wargear, maintained their weapons from the M36 lasgun down to their trench knives. Still, such activities went by fast so all the Cadians could do was peer at the channel, smoke lho-sticks, and chat idly. Others took time to turn on their portable burners to heat up water to shave, brush their teeth, or brew some recaf. Some just came by to warm their hands in the afternoon chill.

The platoon sergeant went around, checking in with each squad to make sure each man possessed what he needed. Charge packs, rations, materials for their grooming kit, grounds for their preferred recaf brews, fresh bootlaces, thread to repair tears in their gloves, spare chewing tabac, or lho-leaves and rolling paper for smoking were the most requested. Marsh would dig into his kit bag, slung over his shoulder and rest at his side, and procure everything they needed.

Along with Junior Commissar Carstensen, he did his best to keep their spirits up. Marsh visited each cluster of men, smoking his pipe with them, sharing some recaf, chatting, or just standing with them for a little while, just to keep them company. Everyone smiled and nodded, and they were able to swap a few jokes to keep their spirits up. Carstensen would sometimes engage in the conversation, although she remained quite reserved and no one seemed to have the courage to ask about the other battle fronts she served on. However, she did open the _Infantryman's Uplifting Primer _to read a few select passages; one might have thought it pointless to re-inform veteran troops on matters they were experienced in. But training and retraining were important aspects of a functioning unit and long periods in camp could dull skills sharpened by long periods of service. Training was something the Cadians in Bloody Platoon enjoyed, anyways, and to be reminded was refreshing. What's more, Carstensen did not lecture them. Instead, she walked them through the subject matter, whether it was maintaining an M36 or digging a fighting hole. Marsh Silas appreciated she did not speak to the men in a condescending tone like Commissar Ghent sometimes did.

Still, Carstensen maintained an authoritative composure and did not take part in the crass humor Marsh Silas did with the men. But she allowed it and that was good enough for him. When she was not reading from the _Primer_, she activated her personal data slate and read off some bulletins submitted to political officers like herself. Mainly, she relayed successes on other fronts, which Cadian Regiments were being rotated off-world for glorious duty elsewhere in the Imperium, and which tithed regiments were making planetfall. 'I suppose we'll see if they can hack it like we can,' was all she said when she finished reading. Her tone was even but Marsh sensed something sly in it, and he noticed the other men around him grinning proudly.

When she did not read from the data slate, she would inform the men of why they were fighting. No one needed it, but to be reminded of their Emperor, and the trillions upon trillions of Imperial citizens they defended by holding back the Eye of Terror, made their hearts soar. At the very least, it made Marsh Silas very proud to be a small part of such a glorious effort.

As he made his rounds with the Junior Commissar, however, his mind was drawn back to the time. Constantly, he checked his wrist watch to see when he would have to return to the cell. It felt foolish to look, wait a few minutes, and look again, as if time would have passed that fast. Occasionally, he glanced up at the sun and watched it crawl across the sky. Everything seemed to be slowing down and it made him very nervous. He just wanted to get back to the regiment headquarters so he could get it over with.

For a time, he thought he was being appropriately clandestine about checking, but when he paused to let some troops pass from a communication trench, he lingered too long.

"What's got you glancing at your watch so often, man?" Carstensen asked, still standing beside him.

"Hm? Oh, well, ma'am, I jus'...I jus'," Marsh took his pipe from his lips and released a breath of smoke, "I want to make sure I'm punctual to relieve Lieutenant Hyram. I don't want to keep him waitin' because I wasn't paying attention to the time."

"Your diligence is appreciated, Staff Sergeant, although I think you have time aplenty before you must go," Carstensen said officially, folding her hands behind her back. "What do you make of that prisoner?"

"Tougher an' she looks, ma'am."

Carstensen only grunted as they marched down the trench, returning Guardsmen's salutes and pausing to let work parties pass by.

Eventually, they came to a raised observation post occupied by Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor. Both of the heavy gunners jumped to their feet, stood at attention, and saluted very smartly.

It made Marsh Silas smile to see the men of Bloody Platoon, even after years of long, arduous service, had not lost their military vigor.

"Report," the Junior Commissar said.

"No movement at all, ma'am," Walmsley Major replied.

"Just wind and waves," his younger brother added.

"Very good." Carstensen pointed down the way they just came. "Up the line, some men in First Squad are brewing recaf. Go and get yourselves a drink; the Staff Sergeant and I will man your post in the time being."

The two brothers looked at each other, smiled, thanked the political officer, and departed. Marsh and Carstensen walked into the observation post and looked at the channel. She held her hands behind her back while Marsh Silas held the collar of his flak armour with his hands. Smoke rose from his pipe and fell from his nose when he exhaled.

For a while, nothing was said between them. Smiling a little, Marsh Silas glanced at Carstensen; her ocean-like green-blue eyes were hard as stone as she gazed at the channel. A few wisps of her orange hair were loose from the regulation-standard bun they were wrapped in. The stray locks swept across her cheeks and neck as the salty, sea breeze flooded the post. Even after being out in the hinterland for so long, she had not lost the delicate paleness of her skin. Her nose was less puggish up close upon inspection, though one could still tell it was broken once or twice before.

Suddenly, her eyes flitted towards him. "Yes, Staff Sergeant?"

Marsh Silas abruptly looked forward.

"Nothing, ma'am."

From his pipe, smoke swirled in the wind, roiling around their heads. When he took it from his lips for a moment, he noticed Carstensen was still looking at him. He cleared his throat. "Would you like to try, ma'am?"

It was not until the words passed his lips that he realized what he did. Not once in his life had he offered his pipe to a Commissar. Many would have perceived it as fraternization which could result in a flogging.

Just when he was about to recant his offer and apologize, she nodded. Plucking the pipe from his frozen hand, she put it to her lips and puffed on it a few times. Then, she inhaled; when she did, she closed her eyes. Lowering it, the Junior Commissar held the smoke for a time, then opened her eyes. In an instant, the wind caught the thin, gray smoke and swept it away.

Looking at the pipe, Carstensen nodded. She handed it back.

"Smooth, that."

"Aye," was all Marsh could manage as he took it back.

"Your magnoculars, please, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh kept them on a leather cord around his neck. When he raised them to get the cord over his head, Carstensen took it. Luckily, it was long enough so that he did not need to crane his neck. For a while, she observed the channel and Kasr Fortis, then handed them back. "Can you see any movement?"

Raising them to his own eyes, he looked at the dead Kasr. Most of the wreck at Kasr Fortis's makeshift dockyards was swept away by waves. Not even the posts for the wooden docks remained. All that remained was a bare, steep patch of earth and demolished rockcrete. Before the Basilisks tore it apart, they watched the dark, wriggling frames of heretics working on their boats or trickling back into the destroyed city. Now, it was as still as a graveyard.

He lowered his magnoculars.

"None."

"I don't like it," was all she said.

"You think they're up to somethin', ma'am?"

"I don't think; I _know _they are. In my heart of hearts, I know it."

"Heart o' hearts?" Marsh echoed. Carstensen looked at him, offered the faintest smile, and tapped the left side of her chest.

"A soldier must think with a clear mind. But, they must not ignore what they feel here.

The pair heard the whir of machinery and looked to the left of the observation post. Enginseers, along with Cadian engineers and retinues of servitors, were overseeing the construction of a bunker. Two days earlier, freshly mixed rockcrete was poured into the bunker's wall moldings. After checking it was dried, the engineers, menials, and servitors began to dismantle the molds. Once they were removed, the servitors and Enginseers began adding armour plating to the exterior and interior walls.

Standing outside the trench and watching the construction was Inquisitor Barlocke. His trench coat was flapping in the breeze and his hat trembled so much he kept one hand on top of it. The glare of sun cast a shadow from the brim of his cap, covering the upper half of his face in a veil of black.

Although the Inquisitor was facing the bunker, Marsh Silas could feel his gaze on him. For a time, he looked at the Inquisitor. In his mind, he could see those dark brown, nearly black eyes, staring back at him. As he focused on him, it was as if the rest of the world was becoming strangely silent. Clanking machinery, grinding servitor treads, tramping Guardsmen, all of it seemed muffled. Vision became singular, lacking color or definition, save for the Inquisitor. Something bore into Marsh Silas, he could feel in his heart, just like Carstensen said. It was Barlocke's sight, studying him.

A hand tapped his arm. Jumping a little as sound and sight returned to him, Marsh turned. Walmsley Major, wide-faced and friendly, was smiling at him. He was holding up a tin mug of recaf.

"Here, brought ya some."

"I already-"

"Thank you, Sergeant," Junior Carstensen said, taking the mug offered timidly by Walmsley Minor.

"Yes, thanks," Marsh Silas said, taking the mug. When he looked back at Barlocke, the Inquisitor was gone.

###

The day dragged on, afterwards. Marsh and Carstensen kept checking on the men and kept wandering through the trenches. Guardsmen talked, maintained their wargear, observed the dead Kasr, watched engineers mix rockcrete and pour it into molds, and sat around. At some point, the regimental pict-capturerer, and took a few images of Bloody Platoon sitting in their trenchworks and that was the greatest excitement of the day. Marsh checked his watch, double-checked, it triple-checked, and checked it so many times he was not sure if he peered at one hundred or one thousand times. When night finally came, he was both relieved and anxious.

After conferring with the Junior Commissar, he left for the regimental headquarters. He passed through the base, aglow with dull yellow lights strung up on walls, posts, and doorways, as well as the campfires from other units. Arriving at headquarters, he made his presence known to the security personnel before heading in. His presence was largely unknown; company commanders were around the hololithic projector, pouring over battlefield results from their operation. Captain Giles looked up briefly and caught Marsh's eyes; the two exchanged nods and salutes. Lieutenant Eastoft, right beside him, was too busy to notice.

Going down the corridor leading to the holding cell, he saw the door was still ajar. Weak, white light leaked from the opening. As he approached, he slowed down and walked softly. Nearing the door, he could hear Lieutenant Hyram's voice as well as the Aeldari Ranger.

"Right here? This is my son, Sydney."

"A handsome boy."

Hyram laughed a little.

"Unlike his father," he joked. Maerys offered a soft chuckle, not polite but earnest.

"Not too unlike, I suppose. How does your family fare, living on such a war torn world?"

"Oh, they live far away on a much safer planet."

"I would use such a word carefully, Sean. Remember, at any time your enemies could strike. Orks could drop one of their great rocks upon a planet, or the Warp could open up and unleash hordes of daemons and those you deem Traitors. Even my people could open a Webway Gate." After a brief pause, she said, "Although, I doubt my people have much interest in whatever place your family calls home."

Her tone in the Gothic tongue was so strange to Marsh's ears. It was without a great deal of inflection or personality. It was beyond even, it was immaculate. No stutter, no hesitation, no repetition; she was so eloquent that it was unnatural. All his life, he served with Cadians who burped, coughed, swore, laughed, snorted, or hesitated in their speech. Even Commissar Ghent needed to pause, if just to recover his breath.

Yet, in that moment, he detected a shroud of humor in her voice. Marsh Silas was shocked; he never thought he would ever hear a foul xenos conversing with a fellow Guardsmen in a civil tone.

After a brief lull in the conversation, Hyram continued.

"You have seen much of this galaxy."

"Enough to fill a lifetime many, many times over."

"I have known nothing but Cadia and Cypra Mundi in my life." His tone sounded saddened. "My life, I've done nothing but stare at logistical reports. Some campaign or crusade would begin to build up. A notice would come across my desk, notifying me of the wargear being taken. Weeks, months, years later, I'd get a report back, telling me how much was coming back. Oh, the numbers were so skewed; large ones going out, and small ones coming back in. Behind each of those missing numbers was a dead Guardsman and I was left to wonder just what horrors they encountered."

Here, Marsh Silas pressed himself against the edge of the door and peeked around just enough to see. Lieutenant Hyram was squatting on the floor in front of the chair Maerys was tied in. The Ranger was sitting forward in her chair, maintaining eye contact with the platoon leader. Her expression was sociable, but not enthusiastic or eager. At most, she seemed interested in the conversation.

But then, she appeared comforting.

"Horrors there are. But in my travels, I have seen such beauty as well. Such, such beauty. Once, I visited a world that was nothing but water. Shallow in some places, deep in most, but not one grain of sand above the surface. I stood in water up to my waist, letting my hands sweep back and forth in gentle waves, and let the warmth of the sun warm my cheeks. All I could hear was the sound of those calm waves, quietly parting and joining one another."

"Aye, it does sound beautiful indeed."

"I imagine most places do compared to this planet."

Marsh frowned; he very much enjoyed the orange sunsets and golden sunrises along the channel.

But Hyram chuckled.

"Aye."

"Have hope, Sean. You'll find beauty out there."

"Your home, your...Craftworld, Ulthwé you called it. I have never heard of such a planet in this sector."

At the mention of it, Maerys kind expression faded. It did not make much of a difference; her face was difficult to read and her features did not betray much. Kindness was a slight pull of the lips, forming a ghost of a smile, complemented by a minor raise of her eyebrows. Yet, it was wrong to call her face blank or devoid of any emotion. If she felt a great many things, then she was hiding them well. Even when she did not wish to hide them, every expression was contained and controlled.

"Tis' not a planet, though a world it is. I dare not speak too much of home, lest my people call me informant one day. Yet is a ship that carries in it a piece of my people, my civilization, one that traces its lineage back so many years you would not be able to comprehend it."

For a moment, she scoffed. "Although, it is unsurprising you know not of its existence. It is trapped within the confines of the mouth that vomits forth the vile forms of Chaos. My people stave of invasion after invasion; they have fought for millennia."

"Much like Cadia."

Maerys considered this for a moment, closed her eyes, and nodded. When she opened them, she offered a far more visible smile.

"Yes. Cadia and Ulthwé share that solemn cause; holding back the darkness. It never occurred to me before."

"Your Craftworld? Is it beautiful?"

Again, her expression faded.

"It makes me sad."

"So you left."

"Indeed, and an Outcast I became."

Hyram stood up, then, and took the canteen from his belt. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to her. After scrutinizing it for a moment, she nodded. Gently, he pressed the mouth of the bottle against her lips and tipped it up. She drank a few gulps before he took it away. Some of the water fell from the corner of her mouth and ran down to her jaw; a single drop fell onto the floor. After clipping the canteen back, he noticed and used his thumb to wipe it away.

Marsh Silas thought she would recoil at his touch but she did not seem bothered in the slightest.

"But you are a Ranger."

"Yes, though I walk the path of an Outcast. Aeldari walk many different paths for control of our emotions and minds, and protection of our souls. Those who reject those paths, either by choice or exile, tread that of the Outcast. Some become Rangers, others take up other professions. Some just wander and wander. Long have I walked this path by choice. It is a great risk to walk it, but..." she hesitated, her eyes falling to the floor for a brief moment. "...there was no alternative."

Hyram sat back down, pulling his knees close to his chest like a child listening to their parents. In turn, Maerys leaned forward. "I have walked long enough and resisted that which is base to my nature that I am a Ranger no longer; I am a Pathfinder."

"A Pathfinder who refuses to walk her people's paths?"

Maerys leaned back, eyeing him curiously, then laughed a little.

"Ironic, is it not?"

"If you rejected these paths, why return to your Craftworld?"

The Pathfinder maintained an inquisitive gaze. A trace of amusement tugged at her cheeks and her pink lips.

After a few moments, she took a short breath and the expression faded.

"You ask many questions for a mere man. Those Imperials I have met keep their minds closed, like the gate of a great fortress. Although, their mouths remain open, spewing forth salutations to your Emperor and damning all that which does not look like them."

"Like I said, I spent my life in an office. Time tempers zeal, and sitting in that tiny room took away much of the hate."

"Even for the Archenemy?"

"Well, much of it, not all of it."

This time, they both laughed. After their laughter died away and they settled, it became very quiet. Back down the corridor, Marsh Silas could hear the faint chatter of voices in the main hall of the headquarters. Sometimes there was a shout, or the whir of an administrative machine printing leaflets to be handed to the men. Occasionally, there was the buzz of the intercom, informing a specific officer their presence was requested somewhere in the building or elsewhere on base.

Marsh looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming down the hall. When he looked back, Maerys was looking at Hyram intently.

"You're very kind to me."

"You have not given me much of a reason to despise you, Maerys."

"I shot some of your men."

"They'll get better," he said with a slight laugh.

Marsh Silas, having heard enough, opened the cell door all the way and walked inside. Maerys looked up at him and resumed an even expression. Hyram was rather surprised and hastily rose to his feet. Checking his watch, he cleared his throat.

"Sir," Marsh grunted, saluting. Hyram returned it.

"Staff Sergeant."

"I am your relief."

"Aye," Hyram said nervously.

He looked at Maerys, who in turn locked eyes with him. She did not appear apprehensive.

However, Marsh Silas wondered if she recalled what his fist felt like in her gut. Did she fear he would beat her? No, there was no despair in her icy eyes. Was it a mask or just pure grit?

Looking at the Lieutenant, he appeared dismayed and anxious. Clearing his throat, he nodded towards the door. "I leave this task in your capable hands, Staff Sergeant."

Just as he began to walk through the door, Marsh turned halfway.

"Sir, would you stay a moment longer?"

Confused, Hyram lingered in the doorway. Marsh did not speak; he could not speak, not just yet. Eventually, the officer nodded. Once he was back in the cell, Marsh pushed the door until it was nearly closed. Before he did, he glanced down the hall to make sure no one else was there. Satisfied, he turned back around and walked up to Maerys. Again, he looked over his shoulder at Hyram. He appeared more skittish than before. His violet eyes were wide and darted between Marsh Silas and the prisoner.

Looking at her, he crouched down. "I have a question for you, xeno."

"Ask," she replied firmly.

"Answer truthfully, for your life depends on it."

"Ask."

Marsh took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. After taking a breath, he gazed at her. He was so close he could smell her; Maerys possessed the scent of the Cadian wilderness, no doubt from her extended time out in the countryside. But a scent he could not quite place, something sweet, was also there.

Rubbing his chin, he shook his head. "You lot don't miss when ya take a shot?"

"No."

"You had my men in your sights, yet they left the field with flesh wounds."

"You had the advantage of numbers; many leaders among warriors would dismiss numbers when compared to superior tactics, fighting spirit, or technology. But it is a fool who underestimates what numbers can do."

Maerys leaned back in her chair. "I have observed you Imperials for so long. When one of you falls, the others rush in and help him. Those who die, you pass by. My choice was to wound or kill, and I chose to wound, because I knew it would slow you down."

Then, much to Marsh's surprise, she adopted a solemn expression. It was not shame or regret, but sober. "And I did not wish to kill that night. Were I on a mission demanding I fight, I would have killed your men. Such is war. But, I am on a journey home for purposes that do not involve humans. I did _not _want to shed unnecessary blood."

Marsh pursed his lips and nodded. He looked over at Hyram, who was not looking at him but at Maerys. Unlike Marsh, he did not hide the surprise he felt.

Looking back at the Pathfinder, he grunted.

"I believe you. But what about that boy, Galo? You think us inferior just like we think you inferior? Why bother helpin' some runt who ain't gonna thank you, remember you, and is probably gonna grow up one day to fight you? And like ya said, you're goin' home; why stop, waste your time, your resources, and risk life and limb for a boy who belongs to the enemy?"

"Because he is just that," Maerys said firmly, "a _child_. With his father or his mother, half-starved, wandering around the Cadian wastes waiting to die. If he was discovered by those you call heretics, he faced a fate far worse than starvation. To have left him would have been to cause an unnecessary death. I..."

It was the first time she faltered. Her mouth opened, her brow furrowed, and she appeared resolute in her words. But she froze; she made no sound or movement. Slowly, she pursed her lips, sat back in the chair, and lowered her gaze. "It was impossible not to help him."

Sharply, she raised her head and gazed vehemently at the platoon sergeant. It was as if she expected retribution in the shape of his fist.

At that moment, he sensed something combative about her. All his training, all the years of xenophobic marching songs and preaching, all the past engagements with the xenos, came flooding back to Marsh Silas. His gut dropped and his heart rate spiked briefly. Clenching his teeth, he resisted the urge to strike her. Withstanding impulses so natural and that served him so well on the battlefield was foreign to him. It took so much energy to hold back.

Eventually, he sighed and with it came the ferocity rising in his chest. Nodding, he stood up.

"I believe you."

"Is this a trick?" Maerys asked.

"No."

Marsh stared at her a little longer, trying to read her facial expression. Beyond the mild confusion in her eyes, it was still difficult to ascertain her true feelings.

Showing more restraint, she inhaled calmly. Marsh rubbed his chin, then placed his hand on his hip doing his best to appear calm and in control.

"This war host o' yours, it's really lining up to go somewhere else? It's not coming for Cadia?"

"Correct. Cadia is not a priority and hardly an interest at this point."

Marsh grunted, unimpressed, but he still accepted the answer.

"And you wanna avoid getting tortured by that Ordo Xenos Inquisitor?"

"You know I do," she answered in a grating tone.

"Last question. Do you hate me?"

This surprised her. Her mouth opened a little and her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Sitting back, she glanced at Hyram; Marsh did not look back, but he imagined he seemed just as shocked.

"I don't know," was all she said.

"Fair enough."

Marsh Silas turned around and faced Hyram. "I'm with you, Lieutenant. Whatever you've got planned to..._circumvent _this whole thing, I'm game."

Hyram's face lit up. With a beaming smile, he took a few steps towards Marsh Silas and grabbed his shoulders.

"Really!? Good on you, man! Thank you."

"So, what're we plannin' to do?"

Instantly, the officer's hands dropped and he blushed.

"I've yet to figure that out."

Marsh ran his hand down his face and sighed irritably. He placed his hands on his hips and began to pace nervously back across the tiny cell. Hyram stayed in place, arms folded across his chest as he tried to think. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Maerys' eyes following him.

Minutes ticked by. Nobody spoke. Hyram began to rub his forehead while Marsh Silas sighed audibly.

"What do we have to our advantage?" he finally asked, extending his hand to Hyram.

"I spoke with Inquisitor Barlocke and asked for permission to interrogate the prisoner. He agreed; he seemed rather excited that I asked. Maybe he was hoping we would."

Marsh took out his pipe, briskly stuffed some tabac leaves into the bowel, lit it with a match, and began to smoke.

"Wouldn't surprise me. He's always five steps ahead of us," he replied as he waved the match out and flicked it away on the floor. "Did he inform the regiment?"

"Yes, Colonel Isaev, Captain Giles, Captain Murga, and Lieutenant Eastoft are all aware we're going to interrogate her. If this Ordo Xenos Inquisitor isn't happy with it, Barlocke said he'll cover for us, seeing as she's under his protection and jurisdiction until he arrives."

After taking a few puffs and exhaling, letting the clouds of gray smoke waft upwards and gather at the ceiling.

"All we can do is make something up and lie."

"Misinformation," Maerys said suddenly.

"Mind repeating that, xeno?"

"Her name is Maerys," Hyram corrected.

"She and I ain't on a fucking name basis, sir."

"If you've agreed to save my life, I would imagine we are, Marsh Silas," Maerys said. He glared at her and she did not respond by word or expression. "Misinformation is the only way to prevent this torture."

"So, just lie?" Marsh said. Taking his pipe from his lips, he placed his other hand on his forehead, and shook his head. He unleashed a loud groan then pointed the neck of the pipe at her. "A lot of fucking help you are. If you don't have anythin' helpful to say, shut up and let us think. We're risking our asses for you so be grateful."

"What I mean you have to craft the lie. Utilize a bit of truth to make it sensible, and then stretch it. Don't outright lie. It's the key to misinformation." Maerys closed her eyes for a moment. "Long ago, I joined a warhost from Craftworld Alaitoc. We had to meet an old foe before they could rise up, but an Ork infestation was going to hamper our task. After engaging the Orks in several engagements, we drove them back to their inner recesses. Containing them was not an option; a decisive battle was required. The Orks knew we were coming, there was no natural element of surprise. So, we utilized some of our forces to stage a build up, to make it appear we would attack from their flanks. When the Orks redeployed to attack, the main force descended from their weakened front. We were able to drive them from the planet, then."

Maerys smiled, more noticeably this time. She appeared very self-satisfied. When she opened her eyes, it faded. Instead, he expression shifted to one of expectation.

Marsh Silas studied her for a moment. Her gaze reminded him of Barlocke's face back in the tavern in Kasr Sonnen; expecting, hoping, waiting for him to say something.

Turning, he shrugged at Hyram.

"She said there is a warhost gathering. Seems like the regiment has gotten it into their heads a warhost is bound for Cadia."

Hyram nodded excitedly, smiling very wide.

"Yes! We tell them what they want to hear, and they'll jump on it."

"The question is, where the hell do we tell them they're going. I don't want them sending regiments all over the damned sector when they could be sent somewhere else, somewhere they're actually _needed_."

Hyram thought for a little while, holding his chin and pacing around. Eventually, he spun around.

"Cypra Mundi."

"They ain't gon' to believe that, sir."

"Why not? It's the seat of Segmentum Obscurus. Any threat against it, real or perceived, will be taken very seriously. They simply cannot risk losing it."

"But they'll divert our forces there."

"There's a very large standing force present already. All they'll do is simply put the fleet on high alert and prepare for enemy forces. Half the time they're already on alert, waiting to be sent out to some part of the Segmentum to engage a Chaos warband or support a campaign. It'll make the regiment feel less anxious about an Aeldari raid occurring here on the planet."

After considering it for a few moments, Marsh Silas nodded too.

"I think that's our best option. But how do we convince them we actually interrogated her? Will they believe us if she hardly had a mark on her?"

"I don't know. They'll have to. Barlocke will believe us. We only have to convince him. If we convince him, then we convince this other Inquisitor."

"We don't know that. We don't even know if he'll just end up torturing Maerys anyways. He's an Inquisitor, he can do whatever he wants."

"I know, Marsh Silas, I know."

"Just hit me."

Both of the Guardsmen turned to face Maerys. She was looking at them urgently. Leaning forward, she nodded. "Strike me. Two or three decent hits will convince them. They already think me weak and inferior; it'll just prove to them that Aeldari aren't worth their mettle and can break anything."

"Maerys, no, no," Hyram said in an implorying, soft tone. Marsh watched the platoon leader hurried in front of her, knelt, and held her by the shoulders. He thought she would be disgusted and recoil from physical contact with a human, but instead she just offered a sympathetic smile.

"It's alright, Sean."

"No, it's not. We're going to see you aren't unnecessarily tortured, so we shan't lay a finger on her."

"It's the only way." Maerys looked past him at Marsh Silas. Her light blue eyes shimmered like cold ocean waves as they were about to break. "I have watched and studied the Imperium longer than your lives put together. I know this to be true; the Imperium speaks of faith, nothing but faith, in its Emperor, itself, into every tenet of its Creed. In the Imperium, you do not need to _see _to _believe. _But this truth they speak is a lie. Your leaders, your Inquisitors, take everything by its face-value, and refuse to look deeper for it offended their truths. I care not if my speech offends you Marsh Silas; your Imperial Truths are infantile and misplaced in my eyes. But the only way this will work is if you hit me."

Facing Hyram again, she leaned forward further, almost so their faces were touching. "If you will not do it, Sean, then let him do it."

"Maerys, please, there must be some other way. We promised no harm will come to you."

"If you do not go through with this, the lie will fail. When it fails, your Inquisitor will not be able to protect you for long. Eventually, you will have to pay for it with your lives, if not, you will bear a heavy punishment. Just like, I wish to avoid this. Your deaths, your own torture, would be..." she faltered here, looking down. Shaking her and closing her eyes, she said something in her own tongue. It was impossible to understand, intimidating by its foreignness, but strangely beautiful in its calm, quiet eloquence.

Raising her head, she smiled very kindly. "Just like that poor child, your death would be unnecessary." She looked at Marsh Silas. "Both of yours would be unnecessary. I shall not have it upon my conscience. So, step aside Sean, and let the Sergeant do what he must."

Still holding her shoulders, Hyram looked down at the ground for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head. Marsh Silas looked on, surprised and wide-eyed. He thought his commanding officer would shed tears. But the platoon leader finally rose up, turned around, and took a few steps away. He did not look back. Marsh Silas and Maerys gazed at one another. She nodded at him.

Suddenly, at that very moment, Marsh Silas felt he was shot right through his head. Recalling that strange obscuring of his vision earlier as he studied Inquisitor Barlocke, it seemed like the opposite. The room seemed so bright and clear, as if the dim, pale bulb hanging overhead suddenly found its strength in a power surge. Seeing her imploring face, and the struggle upon Hyram's, Marsh Silas did not want to lay his hand upon her. He realized why Hyram did not want to see her tortured. She was the enemy, but she had committed no crime against the Imperium. Her existence made her an enemy, but not a criminal. Did a prisoner deserve such treatment? Hyram said they had to act humanely; it did not matter who was the recipient of that act, it only mattered how they, themselves, acted.

It was wrong and it was the only way.

Taking a deep breath, Marsh Silas walked in front of the Pathfinder. Clutching his pipe with his lips, he looked at her. Maerys stared at him, brow furrowed, lips pursed, jaw clenched. "Do it!"

He swung and felt his knuckles collided with her cheek. When he withdrew, he saw a red imprint. Coughing, she faced him. "Again."

With his opposite fist, he struck her in the other cheek. Again, a large red mark spread across the skin. In the center, the skin broke, and dark blood trickled down her cheek. Panting, she looked back up. "Again."

"Maerys, I𑁋"

"Again!"

Closing his eyes, Marsh swung once, twice, three more times. There was a cut on her temple, another on her chin, and a large bruise forming on her right brow. Breathing heavily, she leaned back in the chair.

After taking a moment to recover, she nodded. "Your pipe."

He took it from his lips and held the neck towards her lips. Maerys shook her head. "No, dump the ashes in my hand and close it tight."

"You'll burn𑁋"

"That's the point. Do it, it'll only help the farce."

Shaking his head, he untied her hands from the chair. He knew it was mad to free her like that, but there was no choice. They were in too far, too deep, to be wary of the other.

Maerys flexed her fingers, then held out her left palm. Marsh upended the pipe into her hand, then wrapped his own around it and closed the fingers on the smoldering ashes. In the short time he held her hand, which was small in his own, he felt how soft the skin was. It was like touching a blanket made from the finest fur.

Groaning through clenched teeth and squeezing her eyes shut so tightly the edges wrinkled, she gripped the edge of the chair with her other hand. Squirming for several moments, she did her best to stay seated.

Fearful she made no intention of stopping, he let go of her hand and quickly brushed the ashes away. A cloud of gray ash and a few orange sparks flew into the air and then dissipated. Panting, she looked at her hand. Marsh stooped over and inspected it; it was a deep or terrible burn, but the palm of the skin was deeply red and charred in the center."

Taking out his canteen, he began to unscrew the cap. She raised her hand. "No. It will appear as a kindness. It will give away everything to a more prying eye."

Knowing there was no use in arguing, he put the cap back on and clipped the canteen to his belt. "Thank you, Marsh Silas. Tie me back."

Reluctantly, he bound her hands back around the chair and then stepped forward. Hyram finally turned around, eyes glimmering and lips parted slightly. Marsh just exhaled heavily and nodded.

"Tis done, sir."

"Very well."

Maerys looked up at them.

"I know not if this disguise shall work. But you made this decision, I did not plead nor bargain with you. For the risk you take, I shall thank you."

"Thank me by not blowing my head off if we ever share a battlefield," Marsh muttered. Maerys scoffed.

"I make no such promise, Marsh Silas. But, I will trade..." she paused and smiled, "misinformation, for information."

* * *

**Word Count: **6,809

**Page Count (Google Docs): **17

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

* * *

When dawn finally arrived, Marsh Silas felt exhausted. He spent the better part of the night sitting on a crate just outside the cell door. A wooden, splinter-ridden box for a bed and a rockcrete wall for a pillow did not yield the longest, most comfortable slumber a Guardsman could ask for. But after sitting for several hours, slouched so far down on the supply box's top that his boot heels nearly touched the ground, he considered there were worse places he stayed in for a night.

By the time the deep beating of the Gothic drums called reveille, he managed to sleep for at least a few hours. As he stood up, he grunted as his stiff joints ached. Just as he stretched, Lieutenant Hyram arrived. He appeared nervous.

"I informed Inquisitor Barlocke of our actions. We are summoned by the regiment."

"Do they want the prisoner there, too?"

"Just us two."

Marsh Silas nodded, smoothed back his hair a little, and donned his non-commissioned officer's cap. Wearing his own soft-cover, Hyram nodded. Side by side, they traveled down the corridor and into the center of the headquarters. Gathered around the hololithic projector in a semicircle was the regimental command staff. Colonel Isaev was standing rigidly with his hands behind his back; behind was a small retinue of staff officers. To his left were the company commanders, Captain Murga standing at their forefront. While the Colonel appeared irritable, Murga wore an inquisitive expression in his violet eyes. To the Colonel's left was Captain Giles, arms akimbo, smiling very wide as usual. Beside him, Lieutenant Eastoft was busy tapping the keys on her data slate, entirely focused on her task. Inquisitor Barlocke was absent.

Stopping on the other side of the projector, Marsh Silas and Hyram stood up straight, clicked their heels together, and saluted. All of the superior officers returned the gesture, save for Eastoft, who was prodded by Giles' elbow before she raised her own hand.

Everybody's arms dropped in unison, a motion so quick and emphasized by their heavy, starch uniforms it gave out an audible _thwip_.

Nobody spoke, not even Colonel Isaev. Standing at ease with their hands folded behind their backs, Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a glance. Unwilling to shrug, nod, or make any movement suggesting uneasiness, Marsh tried to glance in the direction of the regimental command staff. As his commanding officer, Hyram had to be the one to deliver the report.

Before Hyram spoke or even understood, Marsh Silas saw a heavy, black-leather gloved hand land on his shoulder. A moment later, another fell on his own. Turning halfway, he looked up at Inquisitor Barlocke. Still clad in his black trench coat but without his hat, he smiled charmingly at the platoon sergeant. Both eyes scrunched up amicably, further complementing his grin.

"Silvanus!" he exclaimed as if years passed between their last conversation. "How wonderful to see you. How do you fare on this wonderful morning?"

Clearing his throat so as to not stumble over his words, Marsh smiled feebly.

"Well, I fare well this day, Inquisitor."

"Most excellent!" Barlocke faced the platoon leader. "Lieutenant Hyram, how about yourself?"

"Well enough, Inquisitor."

"Splendid!" He clapped his hands together, walked in front of them, and spun around. "Now, I hear you have some rather utterly fascinating, downright captivating, plain-ol' interesting information for us."

An orderly came up to him with a tin mug of recaf, which he readily took. Winking at the orderly and shooing them away, he took a long sip. Sighing, he leaned back against the project, causing the holographic image of Cadia to flicker for a moment before resuming its uninterrupted circuit. "Go ahead, men, you have our undivided attention."

A few tense moments passed. Marsh Silas looked at Lieutenant Hyram who cleared his throat.

"With your permission, Inquisitor, we interrogated the prisoner and extracted crucial information regarding the Segmentum Obscurus and our own mission here in Fortis Sector. The Pathfinder revealed after intense questioning and, _physical_, means, a warhost is indeed gathering. However, their destination is not Cadia, it is Cypra Mundi."

A few of the staff officers behind Colonel Isaev whispered to one another. Even the company commanders seemed impressed by the information, exchanging glances and hushed whispers. Colonel Isaev raised his hand to silence them, stepped forward, and gripped the edge of the hololithic projector.

"And did this xeno lowlife say why?"

"Yes, sir. She...the xeno said they wish to weaken our grip in the Segmentum in order to facilitate further troop movements to other battle fronts and strike at our most vulnerable sectors."

Isaev stood up sharply, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

"Leave it to the xenos scum of the galaxy to disrupt what we do here to staunch the corrupted blood which flows forth from the Eye of Terror. Do they not realize what will happen if Chaos deigns to venture freely from their portal? It will not just be our destruction, but their own."

"We'll notify Cypra Mundi," Captain Giles said, "the Aeldari are arrogant people, more so if they think they can fight our fleet there. By launching a surprise attack, they think they hold the advantage. With the fleet on standby, they shall find an open maw ready to devour them."

Just as relief began to rise in Marsh Silas's chest, Inquisitor Barlocke took a long, loud slurp from his recaf. After unleashing a boisterous, contented sigh, he looked at the two Guardsmen.

To Marsh Silas, he wore a knowing expression. Often, it was his most common face; at first, the platoon sergeant considered it to be a byproduct of his capacity as an Inquisitor or his innate psyker abilities. Now, he was fairly certain it was just who he was. Such a quality was ingrained, essential, a part of an individual's core. Without it, they would not be the person they could be. Rather than caused by his capacity or abilities, they were enhanced by them. Even as the thoughts raced through his mind, he was fairly certain Barlocke was observing them. Often, Barlocke's voice would fill his mind, roil in his ears, and drift up and down his body, the moment he became aware of his own thinking.

Yet, Barlocke's voice was surprisingly absent. Across from Marsh Silas, the Inquisitor stared deeply at him. Both brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black, glowed like coals on a bed of burning embers. Other than a ghost of a smile tugging at his pale lips, his face was devoid of any amusement. His brow was knitted in concentration and the fingers on his free hand drummed repeatedly against the edge of the hololithic projector.

For all Marsh Silas knew, Barlocke was in his mind at that very moment. Having no defense against it, just like against the wiles of the daemonette, made him feel weak and angry.

Barlocke took a long drink from his recaf, rising it high up and dipping his head back. When he lowered his tin mug, he looked much more amiable.

"Well, that's settled then. One more crisis for the Imperium has been averted; let us see how long until the next occurs, hm?" He looked in his mug and swirled the contents around for a few moments. Barlocke looked at Colonel Isaev over his shoulder. "What say you, Colonel?"

"Acceptable." He waved his hand. "What of this other intelligence you speak of?"

Hyram explained that Maerys was observing their operations in the Fortis Sector hinterland for the past weeks. Although they dealt a heavy blow to the heretics by successfully clearing out the entire populace from the region and destroyed the unmarked townships, they had not wiped out their presence on the mainland. Far up the western coast was a small cove. Both the cove and the surrounding landscape was extremely rocky and there was only one accessible route by land, which was by the beach. Even before surviving heretics from the operation or those stranded by the destruction of their boats flooded to it, it was a clandestine stronghold. It was fortified by piecemeal obstacles, mainly materials scavenged from the towns or from disused Militarum bases. Razor wire, sandbags, wooden bunkers with sheets of armor plates covering the sides, and emplacements in the natural rock formations made it very dangerous. Inside the cove was a cave; although Maerys was not able to go inside, she noted there seemed to be a large cache of supplies and the population grew over the period of their operation. What's more, a few skiffs were moored there and were the last link between Kasr Fortis and the mainland.

Captain Giles asked for the coordinates and then ordered Eastoft to bring them up on the display. She promptly tucked her data pad under her arms and tapped a few keys into the console. A moment passed, and the holographic image shifted to the sector, then zoomed in onto the designated area.

Everybody closed in on the projector and peered at the image.

"Are we really going to trust the word of xenos filth?" Isaev grunted. "For all we know, this place could be empty and we would end up wasting our time."

"Perhaps she conjured this fantasy to make the beating stop," Eastoft added.

"With respect, ma'am," Hyram said, "I do not think we can risk avoiding the cove."

Barlocke nodded after finishing his recaf.

"Lieutenant Hyram is quite right. Whether it is occupied or not, we cannot ignore information. I would make a very poor Inquisitor if I failed to investigate every kernel of information presented to me. We shall perform a recce and confirm this information. If there are no heretic forces present, fine. If there are, then we'll deal with it. Eliminating it will further strengthen our position, prevent any compromise to our operations against the dead Kasr proper, and perhaps yield more useful information."

At this, he looked at Marsh Silas and winked. The platoon sergeant smiled feebly.

Captain Giles looked at his data slate and tapped a few keys. After reading a few readouts, he conferred with Eastoft.

"We can divert some of the Valkyries for a flyover."

"Aerial reconnaissance will be too conspicuous, Captain. If there are heretics there, I do not wish for them to know we are aware of their presence. A ground team will suffice."

Marsh Silas stepped forward.

"Sir, permission to lead the recce."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Silvanus. But that will be unnecessary; I have some assets in the area of operations and they'll reconnoiter the area."

It was ominous and jarring even to the regimental command staff. Isaev looked at Giles, who merely shrugged. More murmurs passed between the company commanders as well as Isaev's personal staff. Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a confused glance before snapping their attention forward again.

Barlocke came forward and patted Marsh Silas on the shoulder. "Thank you for this information. It will serve us very well in the coming days. Inquisitor Sault will be here on the morrow. Until then, maintain your current watch shifts. You've made a good show of it, men."

With that, Barlocke departed.

###

It was by the Emperor's blessing Bloody Platoon was not assigned to trench duty when he returned to their barracks. All were engaged in normal routines; praying, maintaining wargear, advisement and retraining from the non-commissioned officers, dealing with sores or blisters, eating, cooking, and resting.

After briefly reporting to Junior Commissar Carstensen, who was busy with paperwork, he returned to his bunk.

Marsh Silas was flooded with relief. Although the distaste of lying left a bitter flavor in his mouth, he was glad to have averted the harm Maerys the Pathfinder would endure if she was handed over to the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor. Strangely, he felt satisfied, like he did after returning Galo to his mother or completing a mission without loss of life. Even as he struggled to place it within the Imperial Creed and rationalize it with Hyram's moral code, he could not avoid a feeling of rightness. What he did just felt _right_; even as his mind and feelings directed him elsewhere, to guilt and regret, or to anger and confusion, eventually it wound its way back to that sense of justice.

However, he did not enjoy it long. Relief followed long periods of gripping, terrifying stress. For the better part of the night, he was awake and wrestled with the conflicting emotions of his action. Now that the potential failure of the lie and subsequent punishment were no longer factors, he could breathe easy. As such, all the anxiety which gripped him, like the claws of a beast in his flesh, released. It was as if all that pressure was keeping him upright; with it gone, he very nearly collapsed. Shuffling to his bunk, he barely managed to take off his boots before rolling in and falling asleep.

When he finally woke, it was late afternoon and he was hungry. Drummer Boy was polite enough to pool rations from some of the other men and make a fairly decent meal out of it. Everyone pulled up a stool or a supply box to sit on and partook in grox chops and rice with butter. It was delicious and along with Yoxall, Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Babcock, Logue, Foley, and Honeycutt, Marsh Silas thoroughly enjoyed himself. Even when Carstensen came to investigate the racket they were making, laughing at the top of their lungs at the crass jokes they told ten times over again, she joined them for the meal and they continued to be merry. Although all she offered a polite smile at their jokes, she mainly sat quietly and ate. There was not enough for second helpings all around, so Marsh Silas split his share with her.

Parting in good company, Marsh Silas changed out of his current shirt and donned his tan sweater. Fixing the collar and pulling the suspenders of his field trousers over his shoulders, then donning his cap, he left for the regimental headquarters.

When he made his way to the cell to relieve Hyram, he did not spy on them like before. Instead, he walked in without greeting or ceremony. He found Hyram on his knee beside Maerys. Open on the floor next to him was a basic field medical kit. Gently, he rubbed a sanitization pad against her burned hand. Maerys was wincing slightly, but her expression remained calm overall.

After he finished cleaning it, Hyram folded the pad and rested it on the floor. He then took out anti-burn cream from the kit. Maerys smiled.

"I think it might be too late for that, Lieutenant."

"It can only help you," was his reply.

Squeezing the tube onto her palm, he cupped the bottom and used his thumb to rub the cream into the wounds. Each little circular movement he made was soft and smooth. Once the cream filled the wound, he wiped away the excess with a cloth and wrapped it in bandages. Afterwards, he doused a separate cloth with his canteen water and proceeded to wipe away the dried flecks of blood from the cuts on her face.

Maerys watched him for a time, not quite making eye contact. When he finally finished, Hyram gently touched her cheek and observed the wounds. "I do not think these are too bad. You shall heal soon."

Nodding, she smiled wider than Marsh Silas ever saw before.

"Believe me when I say, Lieutenant, I have sustained wounds far worse than your sergeant's fists."

"Staff sergeant," he corrected playfully. Maerys bounced her eyebrows a little, understanding the slight difference. But Hyram looked over his shoulder and smiled at Marsh Silas. His expression was tender and thankful. The platoon sergeant, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded against his chest and one boot against the rockcrete, lowered his arms. Almost embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck, smiled, and averted his gaze briefly. When he looked back, Hyram's violet eyes were glowing with warmth. Hyram nodded, and Marsh returned the gesture.

Turning back to Maerys, Hyram applied some small adhesive bandages to the bigger gashes. "But he's not my sergeant; he is the platoon's sergeant. And a very good one at that." From the corner of his eye, Hyram looked at Marsh Silas as he spoke. He was still smiling.

Maerys finally turned and looked at him, as if she did not see the veteran Guardsman standing in the cell with her and the officer. Briefly, her smile faded as she regarded him.

If she was resentful for the wounds he gave her, Marsh Silas was not sure. Her gaze was hardened, although it was not accusatory. Even though she agreed and even demanded he strike her, Marsh Silas understood her animosity. Looking down at his hands, clad in leather fingerless gloves, he was surprised he was able to do it. It was so rare when the 1333th Regiment took a prisoner. Each time they managed to corner a heretic, they were always executed on the spot or escorted to a more favorable location for an execution. Many times, he shot or bayoneted themselves.

Yet, when finally confronted with an enemy prisoner, he could not live with himself by letting her endure a punishment she did not deserve. Even laying his hands upon her made him feel sick inside. Although the words and emotions of a xeno meant little to him, he accepted if she despised him.

But if such feelings stirred within her, they seemed to dampen. As her gaze softened, her icy blue eyes glittered beautifully.

"I thank you both. The risk you took upon yourselves by lying to your superiors is not lost on me." Inhaling sharply and sitting up, she offered an amused expression. "I never thought I would find myself uttering such words to a human, but I am in your debt."

"Well, methinks we ain't gon' to be able to call upon them debts," Marsh Silas, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he loped over, "seein' as you're gonna be sitting in an Ordo Xenos cell for the rest o' your days."

Maerys chuckled.

"My internment changes nothing. I shall find a way to repay you."

"You have already given us crucial information. I believe that is repayment enough, Maerys," Hyram assured her.

"The information was for you, Sean," she replied. Maerys looked at Marsh Silas. "It is he to whom I speak. I have repaid him with nothing."

Marsh Silas shrugged a little, keeping his hands in his pocket.

"I ain't got no desires but to serve the Emperor, protect the Imperium, and keep my men alive. That is all. Nothing more."

He spoke resolutely. Marsh Silas believed every word he said. Although, he could not help but feel there were words unspoken.

Maerys eyed him quizzically. Her mouth was twisted in a wry, amused smile. Both eyes gleamed as she studied him up and down. It was as if he was entirely new to her, an oddity not to be gawked at but regarded with timid fascination. Mingled with such an expression was one of disbelief.

As she looked at him, he recalled Inquisitor Barlocke standing near the half-finished bunker the day before. Dark, both in dress and stance, outlined and illuminated by the sun yet still a shadow. Unseen eyes piercing his chest and peering into his soul. Strange was the urge rising within, warding him away yet wishing to follow. Imagining Barlocke in his mind, his trench coat waving in the sea breeze, he knew he wanted to follow, and Maerys may have known that too, even if she did not know who Barlocke was.

After a few moments, she chuckled and softly said something to herself in her native tongue.

Curious as he was, Marsh Silas decided not to ask.

Hyram finished shortly afterwards. He packed up the kit and stuffed it under his jacket, unwilling to draw the eyes of superiors officers who would mistake his kindness for Maerys as treason. The platoon leader promised to be back in the morning. As he passed alongside the Marsh Silas, he paused. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the two Guardsmen looked at one another. Eventually, the Lieutenant's eyes lowered and he smiled softly. He patted the platoon sergeant on his shoulder and departed. After watching him leave, Marsh closed the door until it was almost inside the frame. Sitting down across from Maerys, he leaned his head back against the wall and pulled one leg up so he could rest his hand on it. For some time, they two gazed at each other. It was not a grim staredown or an expression of challenge, nor was it an exchange of embarrassed gawking. Simply regarding one another, his violet eyes meeting her cold blue ones, without words or movement.

He was not sure why he looked on. She was a mere oddity, and in the monotonous Guardsman's routine anything peculiar was hard to look away from. But she was not strange because of her race. Rather, she possessed a strange presence. All this time, she was collected and did not show signs of weakness. In a way, he admired Maerys for her stoic behavior and her ability to bear the pain he brought her.

Eventually, Marsh Silas bowed his head. Even with rest and food in his stomach, he did not feel entirely rejuvenated. Sighing, he took out his ebony pipe and ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. After staring at it for a few moments, he smiled softly and stuffed the bowl with tabac leaves. Striking a match, he dipped the trembling, tiny flame into it. Smoke rose from the bowl and after a few puffs, it streamed from his nose. Waving the match out, he flicked it onto the floor.

Tired of the silence, he released a puff of smoke and nodded at her.

"Say, them Paths you was talking so much about. You been on any o'em, or did you just leave straight out?"

"I tread several of the paths, though I never reached their ends. The last of which I was encouraged to walk was that of the Seer. To become a Seer is to take on great responsibility for a Craftworld," Maerys said.

"Why ain't you finished any?"

"For fear of being lost if I followed them."

For a moment, Marsh Silas just nodded. Then, a thought crossed his mind and he felt rather clever. Grinning, he took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the neck at her.

"If you are an Outcast, like you say, ain't you lost anyways?"

Maerys chuckled.

"In a way. I suppose I wanted to be lost by my own volition, even if _lost _in this instance does not necessarily mean what you mean."

The platoon sergeant nodded simply, then pursed his lips.

"Vo-lition?"

"To use one's own willpower."

"Aye."

For a time, they were silent again. Marsh shut his eyes, hoping sleep would come soon and the night would pass quickly.

"Marsh Silas."

He looked up at her. Maerys held up her hands. "Sean forgot to bind me."

It was a moment before Marsh Silas, quite shocked to see her free hands, got to his feet. More bemused than angry, he shook his head as he took her wrists and tied them behind the chair.

"Bloody fool," he muttered.

"He seems soft of heart."

"For now. I'll make a Guardsman o' him yet," Marsh replied resolutely. "In all my soldier's life, I've made plenty o' fighting men and I'll be damned if I can't whip him into shape."

Maerys chuckled. She leaned in close.

"Try as you might, I doubt you'll ever harden his heart. He is too kind for that."

Marsh Silas tied the knot, walked in front of her, and knelt down. Resting his hands on one knee, he shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth. Thin, gray smoke wafted in a cloud between the two.

Wearing that amused smile of hers, Maerys leaned forward. "You too are a kind soul. Your eyes bear the color and the roiling tumult of the Eye of Terror, I cannot see it there, but it is evident in your face. You are not a man of hate."

Taking his pipe from his lips, Marsh Silas exhaled. A concentrated cloud of smoke blew out from his mouth.

"Face me on the battlefield one day, xeno, and you'll see just what hate can make a Guardsman do."

She chuckled.

"I'm sure I will. I doubt not your capacity as a soldier, but your face betrays it all. You are sweet of temperament just like that young boy, Galo. You stand unbowed before your enemies, but it is not your enemies you should fear most. You are young like a child and malleable like wet clay. Be wary of those around you; some will try to mold you, Marsh Silas. They will try to shape you into something they idealize, something they desire. Others, like Sean, kind of heart, will leave an imprint on you, not to change you, but to teach you something."

Maerys closed her eyes briefly. "Outcast I am, but a soldier still. All soldiers are destined for the battlefield. I know not when the day comes when we share one. Until that day, I shall remember you both fondly."

Marsh stared at her for a time. He wanted to speak, to defy her musings as xenos blathering. No man in his right mind would ever listen to anything peddled by such filth. Yet the words struck him sharply and he remembered Barlocke's own utterances, as if the Inquisitor was speaking his mind at that very mond. _I promised to help you...I can teach you..._ _I can show you so much more...I wish to help you help yourself. _Was he clay in Barlocke's hands? The thought terrified and exhilarated him. To be more than he was, to be a better servant to the Emperor, isn't that what any loyal Guardsman wanted? Yet, would he have to eschew everything he ever knew, which built his life up to now?

Looking at the Pathfinder, who's eyes now seemed distant, he wished he could ask her for more. Perhaps, her mysterious rambling was insight and in this moment of doubt, he longed for more. But as he opened his mouth to ask, his voice faltered. Maerys was just another xeno, trying to play with his mind. At least, that is what his instincts told him and for once he wished they were wrong. So he sighed, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

###

Marsh Silas woke up to find himself being jostled. Opening his eyes, he barely acknowledged Hyram's urgent face as he stood up. He began reaching for his autopistol holster.

"Are we under attack!? Who's attacking!?"

"No! The Ordo Xenos Inquisitor is coming at this very moment, look presentable! And put that away before you kill us!"

Marsh tucked the sidearm back into his holster and began smoothing out his sweater. Hyram neatened the front of his hair for a few moments before the platoon sergeant pushed his hands away.

"I can fix my own hair."

"You lack a mirror, how can you be sure?"

"Well," Marsh grumbled. He tugged his sweater down tight and wiped his face. "How do I look?"

"As close to presentable as you can be," Hyram breathed. He was in his heavy weather field outfit without his flak armor. All that denoted his commissioned rank were the icons on his soft cover cap and the insignias on his collar. "Should we wait in the cell or stand outside the door on either side? Will that look professional?"

"I...I know not. I usually just go to attention wherever I am if somebody who looks special walks by," Marsh replied, rubbing his chin.

"You'd look more intimidating if you stood outside the door and closed it," Maerys offered.

"Be quiet, prisoner," Marsh snapped, pointing at her. He then looked back at Hyram.

"Stand outside?" the officer echoed.

"Aye," was all the platoon sergeant said. As they walked and shut the door, Marsh Silas could see the Aeldari Pathfinder shaking her.

Standing stiffly on either side, they waited. It was not long before Barlocke came into view, followed by another Inquisitor. Sault wore a brown trench coat over what appeared to tan scholar's robes with white trimming. All along the trim were High Gothic characters in bold black. However, it was quite clear from their bulky texture they were covering body armor and the green-tinted collar and leg plating could be seen. Sault himself wore no hat; he was dark-skinned, bald, and clean shaven, although there was a bionic plate on the back of his head. His eyes were a dazzling shade of amber, as if they were gems catching light for the first time in the deepest, darkest recesses of a Mining World. A long nose hung over weathered, pursed lips. From his waist hung a power sword in its sheath as well as a holster for a Bolt Pistol. Around his neck on a silver chain was his Inquisitorial Rosette; in the center of the bone white field was a skull, while the base was trimmed with black. His face was hard, as if chiseled from rockcrete. He was broad across the chest, thick in his arms, and stood a head taller than Barlocke.

Behind him were two guards in padded, olive drab uniforms. They wore charcoal gray armored vests, pauldrons, and helmets. Visors covered their eyes and a red, bionic eye was on the right side of each. Both of their faces were firm and scarred. In their hands, they carried laser weapons the likes of which Marsh Silas never saw before. The weapons were sleek and looked far more advanced than the Hellguns the Kasrkin brought into battle. Their vests were adorned with bandoleers containing numerous charge packs as well as grenade belts.

Just the trio's appearance intimidated Marsh Silas. One Inquisitor was enough already, but with two he felt as though he had a greater chance of perishing than he did during their previous operation.

"Not much to do on a planet like this, eh old friend?" Barlocke asked in a chipper tone as they came closer.

"Plenty. However, we are blessed by the God-Emperor for this opportunity. I thank you for holding this prisoner."

"Thank me not, these two have done all the work!" Barlocke said proudly, sweeping his arm towards the two Guardsmen. Marsh Silas and Hyram clicked their heels, pressed their arms to their sides, lifted their chins, and saluted. "They have diligently guarded the prisoner and have not faltered in their duty. They have even completed your duties."

Sault looked at Barlocke in irritated surprise.

"You _what_? Need I remind you, your Ordo is not to interfere in the business of my own. Xenos filth are reserved to us; your branch and any other, for that matter, are not equipped to deal with this menace."

"I've crossed blades with xenos plenty of times," Barlocke huffed, appearing more offended than he probably was. "Besides, as I have the most authority in this sector, the prisoner was under my responsibility and thus I could do with her as I saw fit. These two Shock Troopers desired an opportunity themselves, you see."

The two troopers were still saluting. Barlocke waved briefly as he approached, and they lowered their arms. As they did, he stepped between them, put an arm around each, and pulled them close to him. "They wished to avenge their comrades' wounds and muscle the information out of the prisoner themselves. Both wanted to prove themselves as loyal and diligent servants. I believe they have. If only all Guardsmen were as willing and eager to act on behalf of the Imperium."

Sniffing as if a foul odor caught his nose, Sault surveyed the two Cadians. Marsh Silas and Hyram, both uncomfortably close to Barlocke, exchanged a quick glance and then locked eyes with Sault. The alien hunter eyed them suspiciously, then closed his eyes, and exhaled loudly.

"Very well. You have the Ordo Xenos' thanks, Guardsmen."

"I'll transfer the information to your data slate once we're back in the control center," Barlocke said. "I take it that means you won't have to torture the xeno?"

"Not here, not now. Seeing as it is apparently so weak as to relent to mere Guardsmen, it won't be required during further questioning. But, xenos are useful alive or dead, pristine or mangled; in any condition, they can be studied."

Marsh looked at Hyram, who seemed a little gray.

Without another word, Barlocke released the two Guardsmen and tapped the code into the keypad. After the locks were released, they swung it open. Marsh Silas and Hyram began to enter, but were quickly shoved aside by Inquisitor Sault and his Scions. It was hard not to growl and stare daggers into their heads, but Hyram joined Marsh on the left side of the corridor and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't speak but offered a cautious look that made the platoon sergeant ease up.

Sault looked over Maerys and made an approving grunt. "I"m surprised by the state it's in. I expected your two Guardsmen had to beat this scum into a pulp to extract even minor information."

"Not everything has to be decided with fists, Sault," Barlocke replied dryly.

The Scions unbounded her, stood her up, and then shackled her with their own handcuffs. Shoving her out, one Scion walked in front of her and the second followed behind. Sault and Barlocke shook hands, then followed. As the party reached the end of the hall, there was a brief hesitation as they exited one by one. Maerys lingered and looked at both Marsh Silas and Hyram. She nodded and a small smile tugged at her lips. One of the Scions jammed the barrel of his weapon into her back, forcing her forward.

For a time, the two Guardsmen stared at the empty space by the corridor's entrance. Eventually, Marsh Silas sighed, pulled out his pipe, and put it to his lips. He did not light it this time.

"Come, let us return to Bloody Platoon and be done with this lunacy," the platoon sergeant sighed.

Hyram just nodded rigidly. Side by side, they went down to the end of the hall. Just before they rounded the corner, Barlocke stepped into view. Both paused immediately as the Inquisitor towered over them. His face was very stern, so much so a dark shadow nearly fell over his eyes from his cap. For a few, slow, tense moments, no one moved and no one spoke. Suddenly, he smiled and the Inquisitor's face seemed to light up.

"Well done."

It was all he said before exiting. Both Marsh Silas and Hyram lingered for a few moments, exchanged a confused glance, and then exited.

Neither spoke as they drifted through regimental headquarters or when they crossed the main compound. Ascending the slope to their barracks atop the cliff, they still did not speak. It was only when they reached the top that Hyram stopped in his tracks. His hands dropped and he slid them into his pockets. Turning, he looked down at the base. Marsh stared at him for a time, observing his forlorn face. It appeared as though Maerys was already a distant memory, but not one Hyram was keen to forget. A latent sadness persisted in his violet eyes.

Eventually, the officer turned to him, looked down at his boots, and smiled softly.

"Do you think we shall ever see Maerys again?"

More than anything else, Marsh Silas wanted to say no. Yet, he did not believe it himself and could not manage to speak it.

Shrugging, he shook his head.

"I know not."

Hyram nodded in an understanding fashion. When he looked back up, he smiled.

"Come, shall we practice some letters?"

###

It was later in Hyram's quarters that Barlocke finally arrived. Marsh Silas and his commanding officer were seated at the table, pouring over the _Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. _Without announcement, the Inquisitor pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Both Marsh and Hyram jumped in their seats and looked up at him. Barlocke smiled kindly.

"I just wanted to inform you that Inquisitor Sault's transport to another Kasr was ambushed. The Pathfinder escaped. Sault and his men were wounded, but there were no casualties."

Marsh and Hyram blinked at one another. The former, infuriated, stood up and shoved Barlocke in the chest.

"What was the point of all that, then!?" he hollered.

"Quiet, Silas, you'll wake the other men!" Hyram hissed.

"No! We risked our hides by lying for that xenos wench, just so she could escape? We're responsible for that!"

Barlocke pursed his lips and squinted, pretending to be in great thought.

"Mm...mm...no, you're not responsible. There's no telling if the Aeldari would have mounted a rescue regardless if you prevented the Pathfinder's torture or not. The outcome is unrelated to your actions, Marsh Sias."

"You planned this whole thing, didn't ya? You wanted us to stop her from being tortured, you wanted us to sit with her an' talk with her? Didn't you? Trying to teach me a lesson?"

"Oh, you're a fast learner, Silvanus, that's for sure," Barlocke chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder as he walked in. The Inquisitor seated himself on the edge of Hyram's bunk. "Yes, I did."

"Aiding the enemy, being a friend to xenos?" Marsh growled. "That ain't what the Emperor wants."

"It was not so much aiding the enemy but as what Hyram said, preventing something unnecessary. That Pathfinder spoke truths; there was no Aeldari warhost bound for Cadia. Any intelligent man could tell you that, but there would be no convincing your superiors otherwise. Besides, I wanted to see if you could find it in your flinty Cadian heart to extend a sympathetic hand to someone you've been raised to hate. And you did."

Barlocke smiled sinisterly at Hyram. "Tell me, Lieutenant, was it your sense of morality and justice that influenced you, or was it her beauty?"

Hyram blushed and looked at his feet. Barlocke snorted. "Both, I imagine." He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. "Silvanus, which is the greater enemy? Xenos, or Chaos? Only a fool would answer both are of equal threat. Chaos is the most dangerous of our foes and is an enemy to the Aeldari as well. We found ourselves allies by our common enemy."

"But the God-Emperor does not wish for us to make allies or kin of the xenos," Marsh Silas insisted. "We have made war on them for all time. It is the Emperor's will."

"It is, but only against those who make war on us. You know very little of the Imperium outside Cadia, Silvanus. There are many xenos who accept Imperial rule and are protected by it as well. Others pose no threat to us and thus are not worthy of the Emperor's acknowledgement. There are some races who will never be a friend to the Imperium and it is towards _those _you should direct your hatred."

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. Barlocke appeared confident and self-assured. Marsh Silas only gritted his teeth while Hyram continued to watch on, timidly. "Did you ever stop to consider the Aeldari only make war on us because we make war on them?"

Marsh Silas uncurled his fists and sat back down. Groaning irritably, he pressed his hands down tightly on his thighs. For a moment, he stared at the floor, but managed to raise his angry gaze to Barlocke. The Inquisitor smirked. "You agreed to learn. You are learning at this very moment. You do not like it, but most of what we learn does not sit well within us. Like the uniform, contained education a parent offers, it must be shed and replaced by acceptance of life as it truly is, not as they see it. Learn from those who have seen what you have not."

Barlocke stood up and approached. He towered over Marsh, who sat back so far his back touched the edge of the table. "Do you wish to renounce our agreement?"

"No," Marsh answered quietly after a few moments. But he offered one last defiant glare. "I want to serve the God-Emperor. But I do not wish to be made into a pawn."

"And I have no intention of making you one. You will become the man you can be, the man you _should _be. I seek not to change who you are entirely. I merely want to challenge some of your beliefs, so that you will consider what is actually around you instead of just what the priest and the Commissar have told you."

Without another word, Barlocke turned and began to exit. Halfway through the entryway, he paused, and turned back. "Across the Imperium, by the rising and setting of a million suns, loyal citizens bow their heads in prayer to the Emperor. But our chiefest and greatest warriors, the Astartes, do not. They have lived far longer than you or I, and they worship what Man can become. And those fabled warriors believe no man can become a god."

Barlocke smiled softly. "Challenge yourself, Silvanus."

He disappeared, leaving the curtain waving in his wake.

* * *

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	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

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The next few days were spent waiting for Barlocke's mysterious assets to report back to him. Bloody Platoon rotated between its trench detail and off-duty routines. When the Shock Troopers were not standing watch, they were going over their wargear or resting. None were aware of the intelligence Maerys the Pathfinder revealed to Marsh Silas and Lieutenant Hyram. Since the conference, the information stayed solely within the regimental command squad. Nobody was to be informed until a heretical base was confirmed at this curious cove.

It was difficult for Marsh Silas not to inform Bloody Platoon of this prospective mission. He understood Guardsmen were often only told the bare minimum in order to prevent the spread of misinformation or intelligence from falling into the hands of traitors. Yet, he wanted his men to be prepared for the assault they would make if the enemy happened to be situated there.

What's more, Barlocke's words hung over Marsh Silas like a raincloud in the sky. Xenos were xenos, enemies of the Imperium, it was repeated all throughout his youth. Yet, here came Inquisitor Barlocke telling him in places far away from Cadia, there were xenos who obeyed their laws and posed no threat. The priests declared the Emperor wanted all of them exterminated. An Inquisitor, of the Ordo Hereticus no less, assured him the Emperor did not want to harm xenos who posed no threat or were willing to ally themselves with the Imperium. Inquisitors and priests were voices of the Imperial Creed. Whose word was he to take; those who preached in His name, or defended His name?

By saving the life of one xeno who was now free and could take up arms against the Imperium, had he not betrayed the creed and his comrades? Hyram assured him in the aftermath he was not a traitor. Their actions prevented something immoral and unnecessary from occurring. Whether she was an enemy combatant or not was irrelevant; their actions were just and righteous. Like Hyram, Barlocke spoke of Maerys as if she was not a xeno, placing value on her life. Worst of all, he felt accomplishment by sparing her from torture. He could not make any sense of it. How could a man learn if he was so utterly confused by what he was being taught?

The Emperor was not a god? Such a thought made Marsh Silas want to spit. Of course, He was a god! To deny that was to defy logic. Only a fool would believe the most powerful, intelligent, bravest man of all time was not a god. But if the Astartes, those fabled Space Marines, did not and were still loyal, what did it mean? Who was right, and who was wrong? Could everyone be right? Or perhaps, everyone was wrong?

Knowing he would not be able to change the situation by ruminating on it, he did his best to keep the men ready.

In the morning, he mustered Bloody Platoon for the morning roll call. Each name was called out before they quick-marched up and down the entire cape. After making five circuits in full gear, they paused briefly to eat their morning rations. Once they were fed, Junior Commissar Carstensen relayed the latest news from other battlefronts and read from freshly printed inspirational leaflets. Then, they practiced maintenance drills with their lasguns, then visited the practice range. Marksmanship was especially important to Cadians and Marsh Silas made sure his men were sharper than everyone else in the company. On the range, he spent extra time with Hyram; he made sure the butt of the weapon was pressed in his shoulder, the elbow of his dominant hand was out, and that his feet were the proper space apart for stability. However, he made sure not to embarrass the platoon leader in front of the other men, and made sure they all practiced in the same way the officer did. Shooting positions and postures were adopted and changed, as well as weapon transitions from lasguns to sidearms.

After grenade drills and general maintenance for their wargear, they practiced close quarters combat. As a treat, Hyram obtained permission from Captain Murga to practice on the beach outside of cam so they could enjoy the chilly sea air. The men were glad to be away from their usual quarters, even if they were to train. To take off their flak armor and helmets was always a relief.

Bayonets were thrust into sack targets made to look like filthy heretics with gnarled teeth, troopers trained in hand-to-hand combat, and the non-commissioned officers dueled with their power swords. However, they did not turn on the swords' powered capabilities for fear of damaging their weapons or wounding the other.

"I'm done for now," Mottershead sighed, lowering his blade. Marsh Silas, across from him, grinned victoriously.

"Say it, sergeant, you must or the fight shall continue!"

Mottershead rolled his eyes but smiled amiably.

"I yield."

The pair sheathed their swords and shook hands.

"Victory for Marsh Silas," Babcock said. He was sitting on the sand just beyond the grass. With his finger, he drew another tally mark on a scoreboard he outlined.

Drummer Boy was beside him, tweaking one of the knobs on his Vox-caster while running a comb through his hair.

"You have to be the best swordsman in the entire platoon, Marsh Silas," the Voxman said.

"Not me. That distinction belongs to the color-bearer," Marsh said, motioning towards Babcock. "You don't ever want to cross swords with this man. He has earned Duelist Honors."

"It is by the Emperor's blessing I have earned such distinction."

"You could learn something worthwhile from Babcock if you put that comb down for a change, Drummer Boy," Marsh Silas said.

The Voxman took offense, frowning and furrowing his brow. Tucking the comb back into his grooming kit, which he slid into one of his pouches, he jumped to his feet.

"I can fight too!"

"And you fight well, but a blade requires discipline!" Marsh declared.

"It is not a mere bayonet you just thrust and gore into a heretic's belly," Babcock added. "It requires far more skill and knowledge, and you could spend a lifetime trying to learn."

Drummer Boy still looked upset. But his fists were opening and closing quickly, and Marsh Silas knew he wanted to prove himself. Guardsmen from a backwater world without any military tradition would take such chiding on the chin and leave the matter alone. A Cadian, however, would rise to the occasion, defy such goading, and show everyone around him he was beyond capable.

Without another word, Marsh turned to Mottershead who handed him his sheathed sword. In turn, the platoon sergeant gave the sword to Drummer Boy who eagerly took the fine blade out of the sheath.

Grinning, Marsh Silas drew his sword as well. Babcock got onto his feet and approached Drummer Boy. "Stand this way, one foot before the other. Let him see your side, not your front, minimize the target area. Keep the blade in front of you, it's both your means of attack and defense. Not too far, you don't want to lose it or overextend yourself. It has reach, use that, not your arm. You can hold it with both hands or one, feel the weight? Strong, but not heavy."

Other members of Bloody Platoon began to gather around. Hyram and Carstensen stood side by side; the former looked worried but the latter appeared pleased. Babcock noticed the pair nearby. "Sir? Ma'am? Anything you wish to impart?"

"Try not to get stabbed," Hyram said, and many of the Guardsmen in earshot laughed.

Marsh Silas was glad. Before, Bloody Platoon could not stand their commanding officer and did not engage him beyond salutes. Now, they saluted and said, 'Hello, sir,' in the morning. Squads leaders and other sergeants delivered their reports directly to him instead of communicating solely through Marsh Silas. Some of them engaged in casual conversation with the Lieutenant when he sat with them to eat. To see them at ease around Hyram and not trying to avoid him was very encouraging.

Carstensen held up her hand, clad in her unique power fist.

"I have more aptitude with caving skulls in rather than cutting them off," she said, which earned a few chuckles as well. "However, you must stay mobile. Guard when you must, but keep moving. By moving, you force your opponent to move as well. You must maintain dominance."

"Yes, ma'am!" Drummer Boy replied confidently.

Babcock backed away. Everyone gathered and watched eagerly. Some were whispering a few snickered. A few were already taking bets. Marsh Silas could see Queshire in the corner of his eye palming packets of lho-sticks and ration bars to hold onto for the other Guardsmen.

"Have at it!" Babcock shouted.

Marsh Silas stepped forward quickly while Drummer Boy thrust his blade immediately. Sidestepping the thrust, Marsh quickly brought the blade's edge to the side of Drummer Boy's neck. The Voxman's eyes bulged as he leered at it.

Raucous laughter rose among Bloody Platoon; the spoils were passed around and men began smoking.

"Don't leave yourself open, Drummer Boy," Marsh lectured kindly, lowering his blade and patting him on the shoulder. "Come, let's try again."

Marsh turned around to resume his position. Just before he reached it, he heard boot feet in the sound pounding towards him. Whirling around, he found Drummer Boy charging him. Again, he sidestepped, but as he brought his blade up, the younger Guardsman turned halfway and deflected the motion with his sword. Forced to double-back, he kept his sword up while Drummer Boy advanced. Thrusting, swinging, slashing, he threw his weight against the blade and continued to take ground. Assembled Guardsmen cheered in support of both dueling troopers and marveled as the blades clashed together. As rough waves smashed against the shore and the wind increased, so did the volume of the clanging swords.

It was a good fight and Marsh Silas was enjoying the sparring. He kept backing up, waiting for an opportunity. When Drummer Boy held the grip with both hands and brought it down over his head, the platoon sergeant crouched down, clutched the grip with his hands, and held it horizontally above him. The swords met and Drummer Boy halted to try and put his weight down on the sword.

Knowing he was stronger than the Voxman, he let go of the grip with one hand and punched him in the stomach. The blow was not meant to be fierce but surprising; Drummer Boy gasped and jumped back. Jumping to his feet, Marsh began advanced, deftly maneuvering his blade to try and find a winning blow. Although he was on the retreat, Drummer Boy was able to block his attacks. A few attempts were made to parry on his part, but he lacked the skill to do so and Marsh was regaining the initiative.

The cheering grew louder as the pair surged back to their starting area. Marsh Silas was overheated and sweat gl on his forehead. Drummer Boy was beginning to look haggard. Both of the duelists were grinning however and were enjoying themselves thoroughly.

As they returned to where they began, Marsh parried one of Drummer Boy's thrusts, closed in, bashed him with his shoulder, and disarmed him. The Voxman fell down, sending up a flurry of sand. Marsh's brought the blade close to his neck.

"Yield!" cried the younger Guardsman.

Cheers and calls rang out among Bloody Platoon. More lho-stick packs and ration bars were swapped between the troopers.

Marsh slid his sword into the sheath and then extended his hand down to Drummer Boy. The young trooper looked at his hand for a moment, then grinned and took it. With one swift jerk, the platoon sergeant yanked his friend to his feet. Both shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder amicably. "I am glad you're on our side, Marsh Silas," Drummer Boy laughed.

"That was a good fight. When you earn your stripes one day, you'll be ready for a proper sword. Methinks Babcock and Mottershead would not mind giving you lessons until then."

"Not at all," replied the flag-bearer.

"I wouldn't mind," Mottershead added.

"Then, one day, you'll almost be as good as me," Marsh joked.

"And what makes you think you are an authority on swordsmanship?"

Everyone turned towards Hyram and Carstensen. Standing behind them was Barlocke; the platoon leader and Junior Commissar each stepped away, as if they were surprised by his presence.

Barlocke was not wearing his hat, trench coat, or silver power armor. He was simply dressed in his black trousers and a green sweater similar to what Marsh Silas wore when he was on light duty. Without his armor or heavier clothing, he appeared much more thin than anyone expected. While not gaunt or sickly, he was by no means robust. His wiry stature was made all the more apparent by his height.

He was standing with his arms folded across his chest and his head cocked back slightly. The sea wind was played with his dark, dark brown hair. It swept across his smooth forehead and his gnarled, scarred temple. Despite his combative voice, he was smiling handsomely.

Everyone stared at him. Before anyone could muster the courage to speak, he lowered his arms and walked forward. One of his hands rested on the pommel of his sword, which was protected in the sheath attached to his sword belt. Walking slowly, deliberately, he approached Marsh Silas. Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Mottershead each backed off, leaving the platoon sergeant directly in the Inquisitor's path. He only stopped when they were almost toe-to-toe.

For a time, they just stared at one another, Marsh looking up, Barlocke gazing down. Eventually, the latter chuckled. "Who would you bet on, a Cadian Shock Trooper or an Inquisitor?"

Marsh raised his chin and puffed out his chest with great bravado.

"A Shock Trooper's spilled more blood and gored more heretics than any other soldier in this whole Imperium."

Barlocke smirked, raised his head, and looked around at Bloody Platoon.

"Do you share such sentiment?"

"Aye!" came the cry.

Slowly, the Inquisitor removed his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his trousers.

"Then place your bets," he said. "Draw your sword, Silvanus."

Marsh Silas did not hesitate; he could not. Quickly, he slid the blade out of the sheath, detached the sword belt, and tossed it to the side. Barlocke did not even take out his sword. Instead, he took a few cautious steps backwards and stood as if he was in casual conversation with another person.

Briefly, the wind died down, barely strong enough to tug at the collars of the Guardsmen's jackets or tangled their hair. Behind them, the fields of yellow flowers ceased swaying. Crashing waves subsided into gentle, lapping ripples that did not rise above a man's ankle. Everything along the shore grew still and quiet. Only the distant sound of revving machinery and hollering at the base could be heard, but just barely. Then, the wind returned, drowning out those slight noises. Slowly, the flower fields began to tremble. As each gust of wind grew more intense, they began to dance, and then sway in every direction, becoming a yellow sea of their own. Placid waves became more frequent, then grew in volume. White spray splashed when the waves struck the shore. Finally, the surf ran out, roiled, and culminated into a large swell smashed against the beach.

Digging his heels into the sand, Marsh sprung forward and raised his blade to swipe diagonally at Barlocke. Just as he brought the blade down, the Inquisitor nimbly stepped to the side. Turning on his heel, the platoon sergeant made one thrust, two, and then three in quick succession. Each time, Barlocke was able to duck or dodge each one without exerting himself. Lowering himself for leverage, Marsh thrust upwards towards the Inquisitor's head. Grinning pleasantly, all Barlocke did was cock his head from side to side. The blade missed him by a hair each time.

Growling in frustration, Marsh changed tactics, leveled the sword, and tried to swipe across his belly. Barlocke just hopped back. But instead of waiting for him to attack again, the Inquisitor rushed forward, hooked his hand under Marsh's sword arm, and jerked upwards. With his fighting arm at a downward angle, he could not raise his sword at all. The strain put on his shoulder and bicep was terrible, and he could not help but grit his teeth.

Grabbing his belt buckle with the other hand, Barlocke lifted Marsh Silas off his feet and slammed him onto his back right in the sand. In one instant, all the air in Marsh's lungs burst and he gasped loudly.

Writhing, he sucked hard to try and regain his breath. Nonchalantly, the Inquisitor backed up until he was ten paces away. A cocksure smile remained plastered to his face.

It was infuriating to Marsh Silas.

Just as he caught his breath, he growled and rose to his feet. Without hesitation, he rushed at the Inquisitor and did his best to strike him. Still, Barlocke did not draw his sword. Instead, he avoided each blow or was able to catch Marsh Silas's forearm with his own, stopping whatever motion he made. When he blocked, he would deliver a quick, hard blow to Marsh's stomach or side. It was not enough to make the platoon sergeant quit, but the sharp nature of each hit was painful.

"Come on now, Silvanus, you can fight better than this!" Barlocke taunted when he managed to shove Marsh away from him again.

He was too angry to formulate a response. Marsh leveled the sword and turned it so the flat side was facing Barlocke. Clutching the grip with one hand and the top of the blade with the other, he closed in quickly to smash it against his chest or gut. Such an impact would stun him and leave him open to find a winning blow. Rearing his arms back, he shot them forward when he came within distance. Instead, Barlocke raised the flats of his hands and both stopped the movement and used Marsh's own momentum to guide it away from him. In the same instant, the momentum turned him as well and Marsh's eyes popped as his flank was exposed.

Suddenly, Barlocke's hand shot in front of him, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and spun him back. Just as he did, he let go, and swung the back of his hand. It struck Marsh's cheek and sent him reeling a few feet away. The impact was so acute it made his skin ting yet it was so fierce the bone underneath became sore almost instantaneously.

Holding his cheek for a few moments, Marsh seethed angrily. Turning back around, he ran at Barlocke with his sword extended. Barlocke sidestepped, raised his shin, and tripped Marsh Silas. As he began to stumble, the platoon sergeant felt the Inquisitor snatch the straps over his coat. Using them as leverage and utilizing the stagger for added momentum, Barlocke threw Marsh forward.

Landing face-down in the sand, Marsh slid nearly a standard foot before he came to a stop. Grunting furiously, he propped himself up on his hands and knees. Before he got back up, he slammed his fist into the ground.

Back on his feet, he adopted a defensive stance.

"Draw your sword and attack me, damn your eyes!" he shouted at Barlocke.

"Are you sure that is what you want, Silvanus?"

"Stop playing with me!" Marsh hollered and rushed at him.

All of his attacks were wild and imprecise. None came close to Barlocke, who backed off as a matter of formality rather than personal safety. Tired, Marsh found his aching limbs growing slacker and his thrusts more feeble. Keeping up with Barlocke's quick movements was becoming more difficult. A gap opened between them and the Inquisitor finally drew his elegant power sword.

Unlike Marsh's, it was a double-edged blade. The guard was gilded with golden trim and was shaped like the Aquila. An ebony grip ended with a silver pommel, crafted in the shape of a skull.

Barlocke advanced and swung. Marsh raised his sword just in time to catch the blow. But he barely had another moment to react as Barlocke backed off and thrust. Thrown into retreat, Marsh kept backing up, blocking and dodging each assault. All of the Inquisitor's movements were faster, sharper, and far more ferocious than anything he mustered throughout the fight. Avoiding them was more akin to staggering back like a drunken man and each time he defended, it was still a hard blow. Each time their swords met and the metal clanged, a terrible vibration traveled up his arms and down into his core. Sometimes, his teeth would rattle as if he was beside a Basilisk discharging an Earthshaker round.

Making one last attempt to attack, Marsh tried to thrust immediately after backing away from guarding. Instead, Barlocke caught his wrist with his free hand and brought the pommel down on his overextended arm. Crying out, Marsh Silas let go of his sword and staggered away. His sword fell point-first into the sound. Just as it did, Barlocke grabbed it with his other hand. Slashing at the air with both swords, he then crossed the blades and rushed at Marsh Silas.

Raising his hand, Marsh tripped on a small dune and fell into a sitting position. Just as the blades seemed as though they would close around his neck, he closed his eyes. "I yield!"

Opening his violet eyes, Marsh found himself looking up at Barlocke. The Inquisitor smiled triumphantly, pushed a loose lock of his dark hair back, and sheathed his own sword. Slowly, he bent over and extended an open to the defeated platoon sergeant.

Looking around at the other men, who avoided his gaze, Marsh Silas felt embarrassed. He lost wrestling matches, hand-to-hand sparring before, and even swordsman's duels before, but he was never beaten so badly before. Ashamed he lost his temper and performed poorly, he almost did not want to get back up.

Reluctantly, he took Barlocke's hand but the Inquisitor did not pull him up.

"You are not the man you have the potential to be. However, Silvanus, you are indeed brave, wise, and strong." He paused impressively. "But not as much as me. Yet, a day shall come when you _will _be. Knowledge, and the willingness to learn outside what you already know, are the keys."

Barlocke pulled to his feet and handed him his sword. The Inquisitor turned around and looked at the men. "All of you who have proved themselves able to bear a sword in service of the Emperor shall be under my tutelage from this day forth. You there, Drummer Boy, carry not a sword, but you shall train with us anyways."

"Why me?" the Voxman asked. Barlocke winked at him.

"I enjoy your spirit." He turned around. "Now, Silvanus, how about a second round? See if you can beat me this time."

Once more, Barlocke did not draw his sword. He extended his arms, as if he was waiting for Marsh Silas to embrace him.

Despite how tired and ashamed he felt, Marsh Silas felt a fire kindle in his heart. Gritting and baring his teeth, he inhaled sharply. Instead of digging his heels in for a charge, he stood straight and turned his side to him, extending the sword away from him. The charming, amused smile on Barlocke's face grew wider. Without a doubt, he was going to enjoy another fight, another opportunity to prove himself the more capable, intelligent warrior. How badly Marsh wanted to prove him wrong, even if it took all day, all night, and the rest of his life to beat him.

With his heart pounding in anticipation, Marsh Silas started forward. Just when he took his fifth step, he was surprised when Junior Commissar Carstensen stepped in front of him. As she did, she clutched his wrist with her hand.

"That's enough, Staff Sergeant," she said firmly. Marsh began to raise his free hand, but she took him by that wrist too.

"Ma'am, the Inquisitor𑁋"

"Continue in this action and you will wound yourself," she whispered urgently. Her blue-green eyes glimmered and the sea breeze caught some of the loose, orange locks of hair coming out from beneath her hat. "Enough is enough."

Marsh blinked at her, then looked down. He realized his hands were shaking so much in her grasp they were making her own tremble too.

Eventually, he just exhaled and nodded. Carstensen let go and tucked her hair behind her ear. Marsh sheathed his sword and looked back up. Barlocke was standing behind her and he looked upset.

"We were engaged in a sparring match, Junior Commissar."

"I do not wish to interfere, Inquisitor," she said, turning around and folding her hands behind her back. "You have ranking authority, but I must insist as a representative of the Officio Prefectus, this Guardsman is no longer fit for sparring and must rest."

He took another step closer, towering over her. His dark eyes burned like coals.

"Out of the way, Junior Commissar."

"Inquisitor, I apologize, but I must insist."

Barlocke attempted to step around her, but Carstensen mimicked his movement. The Inquisitor growled.

"Do you know what kind of punishment I can inflict upon you for defying an Inquisitor's wishes, Junior Commissar?" He seethed.

Shocked, Marsh just stared at the back of Carstensen's head. She was standing tall and stiffly. But he could see her hands were folded into fists so tightly, they were shaking.

"I am aware. But this man needs rest."

"If we stop now, he won't learn anything."

"Barlocke," Lieutenant Hyram said, walking up and standing beside Carstensen. "We've been working hard all morning. Marsh Silas has been running us through drill after drill all day. As tiresome as it is for us, it is doubly so for him. You have made a friend of him have you not? Friends push one another, but not to the edges of fatigue."

"Ah, have you finally remembered you are a platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram?" Barlocke taunted. "Need I remind you, Silvanus is my charge."

Hyram shrunk slightly and began to take a step back. But, his brow furrowed and he held his ground, glaring up at the Inquisitor.

"Marsh Silas is a Guardsman of the Astra Militarum," Carstensen said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"And this regiment has been requisitioned by the Holy Inquisitor. Dare you defy me?"

A tense silence settled between the Inquisitor, Junior Commissar, and Lieutenant. Marsh tried to step between the two, but Carstensen turned halfway and planted one of her hands on his chest. She did not look at him.

"Inquisitor, I am aware of my subordinate position. But, I must insist. Yes, we are seconded to the Inquisition and we shall perform all duties you require of us. In order to fulfill those duties, the men of this regiment must be in the best physical condition. If a man is whittled down in training, he will not have the strength to follow your orders in combat."

Both the sea and the wind calmed. Everything became deathly quiet. Members of Bloody Platoon exchanged nervous glances. A few slowly approached the standoff. Others remained in place.

Barlocke loomed closer, his eyebrows furrowed, teeth bared, eyes wide and burning. Hyram trembled but remained where he stood, and Carstensen raised her chin. Too aghast to speak, Marsh just watched.

"Inquisitor!"

Everyone turned to face the field of flowers. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were standing at the edge. Both wore urgent, excited expressions. "Your reconnaissance assets have delivered their report. The Pathfinder did not lie, there be heretics at the cove. Colonel Isaev wishes to know if you want to mobilize the regiment at once."

All eyes went to Barlocke. His angered expression subsided.

"Naturally," he said. "We shall mobilize at once!"

"Yes, sir, I will inform Colonel Isaev!" Giles replied and trotted off with Eastoft.

Marsh seized the opportunity.

"You heard him, Bloody Platoon! Fall out, collect your wargear! Double-time, double-time, double-time!"

Bloody Platoon quickly gathered whatever equipment they brought with them and began running towards the base. Along with Carstensen and Hyram, he began to follow.

"Wait."

All three stopped halfway up the dune. Barlocke was still standing where he was before. "I...forgive me. I forgot myself and misspoke. I apologize."

Marsh looked at his compatriots. Hyram was white as a sheet still but Carstensen's resolve seemed to have hardened. Unsure of what either would say to the Inquisitor, he smiled at him.

"Blood was up, Barlocke. Tis only natural to act such when the blood boils."

"Yes, you are right. Go on, I shall join you shortly," Barlocke said tiredly. He turned around, resting his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword, and stared off at the ocean.

###

The cove was seated on an hazardous stretch of coastline north of Kasr Fortis. It was far removed from the villages the 1333rd Cadian Regiment eliminated in their previous operation. No roads or trails ran far enough into the countryside for Chimeras or other tracked vehicles to venture. It was outside of artillery range as well. As such, the regiment relied on the limited number of Valkyrie transports to take them to a valley adjacent to the coast about two kilometers away from the target. It was a time consuming process and other Valkyries from nearby stations were requisitioned to ferry the troops. By late afternoon, the last transports were away.

Despite being the first platoon of the first company, Bloody Platoon found itself being some of the last troops to arrive at the landing zone. Inside the confines of the Valkyrie, Marsh Silas found himself seated between Hyram and Carstensen. The former was sitting in the last seat, so he would be one of the first to leave the transport.

Even though they were not dropping directly into a combat zone, Marsh Silas could not help but feel pride knowing the officer was settling into his role. As he studied his data slate, Hyram seemed unconcerned with the impending mission.

Carstensen was on his left and appeared very calm. Her hands were folded on her lap and her eyes were closed. It was as if the confrontation earlier had not occurred.

Marsh looked between them. He wanted to speak to them, but could not find the right words. Looking forward, he locked eyes with Barlocke who was sitting in the jump-seat across from him.

Before he could avert his gaze, he felt Barlocke's cold voice creep up his spine and then flooded his mind. The sensation was strangely soothing and he closed his eyes, feeling calmer. But knowing Barlocke was once more inside his thoughts was still discomforting.

_I am very sorry, Silvanus. I went too far. I should not have done that. _

Marsh wanted to speak, but his eyes flitted from his comrades on either side. Barlocke smiled and tapped the side of his head.

_Speak in your mind. I shall hear. _

Unconvinced, Marsh just rolled his eyes and shook his head. Barlocke nodded assuringly. Nibbling his lip, Marsh finally gave in.

_I told you, our blood was up. I wanted to fight too, but Carstensen spoke sense. _

_ That she did. You can rely on her for both zeal and sensibility, it seems. You may not believe me, but I do admire her steadfast nature. It was strangely refreshing. _

_ She ain't like Ghent, that's for damn sure._

_ I wonder if she would have stepped in for any Guardsman, or just you._

_ I doubt it had anythin' to do with me, Barlocke._

_ I'm not so sure about that. _

Barlocke spoke coyly and that irritated Marsh Silas. Thankfully, the conversation ended there and the Valkyrie soon touched down. The ramp lowered, the occupants stood up, and hurried outside.

Company commanders situated their platoons in staggered lines, making a complete perimeter around the landing zone. Once the Valkyries were away, it became deadly quiet. Marsh took a moment from scanning his sector to observe the rest of the regiment; everyone was clad in their tan winter fatigues and olive drab flak armor. They were focused and deliberate in all their motions.

Once the regiment was organized, the company commanders regrouped on Colonel Isaev. Marsh Silas did not hear their chatter, for he was on the periphery of the regiment with the rest of Bloody Platoon. However, he did catch a glimpse of their data slates and map projections. Eventually, they broke their circle and returned to their units. Captain Murga was joined by Giles and Eastoft. Murga rallied all the platoon leaders and sergeants and staff sergeants. Marsh joined them, crouching between Hyram and Giles. The latter patted him on the back of the helmet.

"First Company is taking the lead with Second Company right behind. Third Company will be in reserve. We're going to patrol aggressively down the beach route and then assault simultaneously. Once we're in position, we're going to clear out the buildings in the cove; we'll be taking the left flank, Second Company the right. Once we've secured the exterior, we'll push in and clear the cave. Clear?"

"Clear," everyone replied.

"Bloody Platoon is in front."

"Yes, sir!" Marsh and Hyram said together.

One the order of battle was established, with Isaev and his command unit in between the two companies to maintain control, the regiment moved out. Marsh Silas and Barlocke took point, fulfilling the role of both scouts and skirmishers. Maintaining an interval of about two meters between each other, they patrolled thirty meters ahead of the rest of the regiment. The beach was wide enough to allow two platoons to travel in columns abreast of one another, but Murga ordered the platoons to adopt horizontal block formations, with one in front of the other. By doing so, each platoon was in contact with one another but possessed enough room to maneuver and grant intervals between men.

Marsh was on the right and kept scanning the environment. As they progressed further to the west, traveling up the coast, he kept turned to look at the rocky bluffs overlooking the beach.

"They chose this spot well," Barlocke murmured, also gazing in his direction.

"No armor support, no artillery support, and one route of attack," Marsh said, thinking out loud. "It's going to be a real brawl."

"My assets reported there was a manageable amount of enemy forces in the exterior of the cove, but they were unable to get inside."

"So we're going in blind?"

"Not so much blind, but with one eye cover," Barlcoke mused.

Marsh Silas chuckled a little. Again, he looked up at the cliffs and searched for silhouettes. When he turned back, he looked down the beach. Several hundred meters ahead, he could see the entrance to the cove, flanked by high, jagged rocks. Turning to the Inquisitor, he saw that Barlocke slung his oddly patterned lasgun over his shoulder. Both hands were folded in front of his face and he was muttering something into them.

Over the harsh, salty winds and crashing surf, Marsh Silas could not hear him until the very end. "Emperor, guide us, bless us, protect us."

"Never seen you pray before," Marsh said, who already squeezed his prayer beads and besieged the God-Emperor for protection and victory before leaving Army's Meadow.

"There is a time and a place for it, but I assure you I say my prayers."

"But you said you ain't considering the Emperor as a god."

Barlocke faced him as they walked, his eyes wide and brow furrowed as if he was offended.

"I said no such thing. The noble Astartes consider him to be the final evolution of Man. He is, but not _just _that. I have fought alongside the Space Marines before and I have found them the most capable, bravest warriors the Imperium offers, even if I do not understand all their ways. But I do not agree with their beliefs. The Emperor is the true God."

Marsh Silas's arms hung limply for a moment. He was so puzzled he nearly stopped in his tracks.

"But if they deny the God-Emperor, is that not heresy?"

Barlocke paused. Marsh, trying to sort out his thoughts, did not notice and moved a few paces ahead. When he noticed, he stopped and turned around. The Inquisitor was smiling affably although his gaze seemed somber. Sadness seemed to fill his eyes.

Unsure of what to do, the platoon sergeant approached him. When he was in arm's reach, Barlocke placed his hands on his shoulder pauldrons.

"It is far more complicated than that. Space Marines shall see no other ruler before them; they worship, follow, and obey the Emperor. As such, they continue to serve. The Tech-Priests of Mars worship the Machine God, and worship the Emperor as an avatar of their god. They are loyal and heed His word, thus they continue to serve. Loyalty and faith, you see, are not always intertwined."

"This is much to take in," Marsh admitted, "I am not sure I completely understand."

"I know."

Barlocke turned Marsh around and placed a hand on his back. Slowly, they continued walking.

Although he was paying them little mind, Marsh felt somewhat embarrassed again. He could only imagine how perplexing their interaction appeared to the rest of the regiment following behind them. Were Hyram and Carstensen worried again?

"Why tell me all this?" Marsh finally asked.

Barlocke's arm dropped and he shrugged slightly.

"Like I said, to challenge what you know, to expand your understanding of the Imperium beyond Cadia. You won't be staying here forever. All steps to be prepared for what you do not understand should be taken." Barlocke reached over and patted his shoulder. "There are those you will fight beside who are loyal to the Emperor and Imperium, but their beliefs may differ or their faith may take different forms. Never lose your faith in the God-Emperor, but do not lose faith in His servants too, just because they see Him or worship Him in a different way."

Marsh just sighed.

"I wish you'd just tell me if I should consider them heretical or not."

"Well, the Holy Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy approve of both the Astartes and the Cult Mechincus, if their loyalty remains checked. But I am not here to provide you with easy answers. You will not learn anything, otherwise."

For a few moments, Marsh thought very hard. He nibbled his bottom lip, closed one eye, and squinted up at the gray clouds beginning to gather in front of the sun.

"The Emperor is my god, yet I should not judge His servants if they serve Him and the Imperium?"

"Quite right. It is the Emperor who binds us all together, whether by faith or loyalty. Acceptance is a word we can𑁋"

Heavy Stubber fire rang out and bullets riddled the beach. Marsh Silas instantly dove into the sand, raised his M36, and squeezed several shots down range. At the entrance to the cove, all he could see was a muzzle flash. Slugs thudded all around him and Barlocke, sending clouds of sand into the air.

Before he could aim and fire again, he saw several figures get up from where the muzzle flash was and disappear through the entrance.

Marsh Silas went to activate his micro-bead, but Colonel Isaev's voice rose on a Vox-caster.

"The enemy is falling back! Guardsmen of the 1333th Cadian Regiment, throw yourself upon the enemy. Chaaarge!"

Looking over his shoulder, Marsh Silas saw the entire regiment get on its feet, unleash a rumbling war cry, and rush forward. Barlocke sprung to his feet, helping Marsh up.

"No...no, no, no. Why would they stop firing? They're luring us in!" he said anxiously to Marsh Silas. The Inquisitor's eyes were wide with horror. "It must be a trap!" He turned and waved his arms. "Halt! It's a trap, a trap lies for us!"

But thousands of running feet and screaming voices drowned out his cries. Marsh was unsure of what to do. Just as he was about to raise his own voice, Captain Murga came running by him.

"What are you doing, Staff Sergeant!?" he hollered in his face. "Get your ass moving!"

Murga took him by the arm and ran forward. Marsh had only a moment to look over his shoulder and see Barlocke trying to catch up through the mass of Guardsmen.

Marsh saw the entrance approaching. He was not so much running as he was being pulled, pushed, and carried by the movement of the others. But he found his foot, raised his M36, and prepared to fight.

Storming through, he expected to be fired upon. Instead, the Guardsmen fanned out into an empty beach area surrounding shallow water. Everyone turned around and around, searching for their foes among the ramshackle huts and sheds.

"Look!" a platoon commander from Second Company shouted. He pointed to the cave entrance, which had a wooden bulwark with armor plating bolted to the front defending it. A few, shadowy forms darted inside the cave. "They flee! They flee! Give them the bayonet, men!"

In disarray, the Shock Troopers flooded forward. First and Second Company men mixed with one another, with troopers from the latter overtaking the former. Marsh was in the thick of them, trying to find his own men. As the advance troopers began to traverse the obstacle, a lone figure appeared at the top.

He was dressed in rags and wore a sack hood. Raised his arms, Marsh was horrified to see wires connecting to a bulky package on his chest. There was a bright flash, and then Marsh Silas only saw darkness.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,980

**Pages (Google Docs): **18

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing: **1.5

**Author's Note: **For anyone who left comments, you can find a thread dedicated to responses on the forum 'Vox-Taps.' You can find a link to the forum on my profile.

Opinions on the mechanics of the Marsh Silas-Barlocke mental conversation; should there be quotation marks with italic sentences indicating thoughts, or no quotation marks? Thank you.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

* * *

In the darkness, Marsh Silas could see a dim candlelight and a finger moving across the page. It traced and made circles around big words, and a disembodied voice repeated them.

"Advantage. Advantages. Advantaged. Advantageous. Count the syllables, sound them out, and then try writing them."

The candle dimmed and the voice faded. Another took its place and he could see yellow flower petals fluttering in the darkness.

"Love is a faith of its own, Silas Cross...trust, love, faith, just different titles for the same article."

Once more, the voice faded and the flower petals disappeared. There was only darkness, impenetrable, horrifying darkness, an endless, empty void. For a time, there was no voice.

"As much as the God-Emperor holds sway over the galaxy," said a familiar voice, "life is an entity itself. Life is unfair."

Marsh Silas opened his eyes.

He was on his back and he could no longer hear anything. Both eyes stung terribly. When he reached up to wipe them, he realized his face and eye sockets were caked in sand. Carefully, he wiped it away, making sure to keep the sand out of his eyes. His back felt sore and he managed to sit up, fighting against the weight of his flak armour.

Knowing he was shell-shocked, having experienced it plenty of times before, he was surprised his vision was not blurred or slow. Everything was happening so quickly. Dozens of dead Guardsmen littered the ground around him. Just as many wounded were clutching gunshot and shrapnel wounds. Blood leaked between their fingers and stained their clothes. To his front, the blockade was demolished in the center. Many deceased heretics were draped over the ramparts or clogged the massive hole left by the suicide vest. More heretics began to jump over the wooden wall or flow through the gap. Streaks of red, blue, and gold cut them down, severing limbs or blowing up their chests. Grenades exploded, but without hearing them, they were noiseless bursts of smoke, sand, and shrapnel. Some Guardsmen tried to rush the gap, but each time they closed in, another group of heretics would swarm out. These crowds held machetes, hatchets, and knives. Others carried autoguns and stub pistols.

Many heretics were storming out of the huts, sheds, and dilapidated shelters constructed within the cove. Much of the regiment was jammed up, unable to find cover, and were forced to fight where they stood. A great many were trying to run through the lagoon, which at its deepest depth came up to a man's waist. Heretics attempted to overrun those who were advancing through the water, but combined firepower and bayonets thrusts saw them killed before they could throw themselves upon the Guardsmen. Other Shock Troopers attempted to scale the rocks and were firing down into the cove. Heavy Weapons Squads braved the rough terrain and hauled their weapons in rocks and crevices as they attempted to add their firepower into the fray.

All around, the sleek, wet, jagged rocks of the cove and surrounding cliffs loomed over the sandy battlefield. Outside the lagoon, through a hazardous passage in the rocks, white breakers crashed against the natural seawall. A smaller swell would enter the lagoon, causing a small ripple that would bounce the enemy corpses and their boats residing in the water. Some of the waves striking the rocks were so massive and powerful, the white, foamy surf came surging and spraying over the tops of the rocks. Were it not for the barrier, it seemed as though the entire cove would be inundated with water.

Somebody ran past him on the left. Looking up, he saw it was Hyram. The Lieutenant was aiming his lasgun forward and was firing quickly as another horde of heretics tried to charge out. When they were dispatched, he kept his weapon raised but turned halfway.

To understand a man's face in the midst of combat was almost impossible for Marsh Silas. So many emotions flashed across one's features, pulling, tugging, and twisting them in so many ways. Hyram appeared hysterical, terrified, and exhilarated. Both eyes were very wide and he could see how bloodshot they were. The eyebrows were raised very, very high. He was certainly screaming at the top of his lungs by how wide his mouth was opening. Each time, all of his teeth were visible, like a rabid dog.

Marsh, still dazed and deaf, just looked at him. Hyram was still screaming at him when a heretic jumped over a pile of corpses and rushed towards him with a raised machete. Groggily, Marsh pointed at the enemy combatant. The platoon leader turned his head, corrected his aim, and squeezed the trigger. A single red lasbolt struck the heretic in his stomach, blowing it open, burning and spilling his intestines. The impact took him off his feet in the same instance.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, Marsh Silas's hearing returned. His ears were assaulted by tearing explosions, lasgun bolts, and the rattle of autoguns.

Marsh found his lasgun beside him, changed position so he was kneeling, raised his weapon, and began firing.

"We need to fall back!" Hyram yelled. "We can't storm the gap!"

"Where's Barlocke?" Marsh asked, standing up and taking a few steps backwards, dropping a heretic as he crossed the breach. "Where's Murga? Giles? Isaev? Where the fuck is everybody!?"

Junior Commissar Carstensen ran over, leading Guardsmen from Bloody Platoon. Babcock was with her, holding the standard in his left hand and holding a laspistol in his other. He ran up to Hyram, planted the flag in the sand, and began firing.

"Sir, there's no cover here! We're in the open!"

"Have you seen Murga!?"

"Negative!"

The air was alive with firing, explosions, and screaming, anyone who needed to speak to one another had to yell into each other's faces just to be heard.

"Cover me!" Hyram yelled. He took a knee as Babcock and Marsh Silas went shoulder to shoulder in front of him. The platoon officer activated his micro-bead and brought up the mouthpiece. "Captain Murga, come in! This is Bloody Platoon! We're stalled at the gap! We have multiple wounded and cannot advance! Requesting orders, over!"

There was no reply. Marsh crouched, dumped the empty charge back inside his lasgun, and replaced it with a fresh one. As he did, Hyram tried to raise the company commander again. "Fuck it! I'm calling in for Vulture gun-runs!"

"We've got wounded all over the place, sir!" Drummer Boy shouted, standing on their hasty firing line and pouring hot lasbolts at the enemy.

"By the Emperor, we must act!" Yoxall shouted, taking a position next to Marsh Silas.

"Right flank, heretics coming out of the huts, right flank!" someone screamed.

A squad of traitors, armed with various blades, were rushed towards them. Just as the Shock Troopers began to shift their fire, they watched as Barlocke darted towards them with his cylinder shotgun. Raising it to his shoulder, he squeezed off several shots. In a matter of moments, the band of disheveled, wailing heretics was torn apart. The shotgun spread ripped their clothes and flesh, tore open their skin, and broke bones.

As soon as he dispatched the hostile group, Barlocke slung his weapon over his shoulder and transitioned to one of his suppressed Ripper pistols. As he approached Marsh Silas and his team, he emptied several magazines into the encroaching heretical hordes.

"We must stay no longer! We are falling back!" he shouted once he was within earshot. "Lieutenant, call for air support! Drummer Boy, get on the Vox-caster and tell these soldiers to gather the wounded and dead. Nobody gets left behind!"

Hyram turned around and took the handheld off the Vox-caster to call for fire. Drummer Boy took another handheld off, turned a knob on the device, then brought the handheld to his mouth.

"I got orders here from Inquisitor Barlocke!" he shouted into the speaker. His voice carried well above the battle-din. "Gather up the wounded and dead and get the hell out of here!"

In an instant, a surge of Guardsmen rushed forward. Dozens hefted the dead over their shoulders, turned, and ran. Others snatched the webbing on wounded Guardsmen's flak armour and began dragging them. Some who were too wounded to be dragged were picked up by one or two of their comrades. Guardsmen and Heavy Weapons Squads situated in the rocks removed themselves and began retreating.

None of the troopers who were only carrying their arms, like Marsh Silas, could not simply turn around and run. The heretics were still coming out of the black depths of the cave and if their volume of fire dropped, they would be overrun.

Marsh Silas slowly backed away with Yoxall, Drummer Boy, and Hyram. Babcock took the flag out of the sand and began walking backwards too. Barlocke was beside him, transitioning to his lasgun and blasting away charging heretics. Nearby grenadiers, like Fleming, were bombarding the gap and ramparts, preventing the enemy from mounting heavy weapons.

The lasbolts emitting from his M36 began to grow dimmer, thinner, and weaker. Marsh knew his charge pack was nearly depleted. Ejecting the pack, he quickly picked it up and stuffed it into his kit bag. Reaching into his bandoleer, he retrieved another pack and slid it in. Standing back up, he was about to resume firing when he saw Junior Commissar Carstensen holding her position. She cut down several heretics with her Bolt pistol, blowing them apart with the explosive shells. A heretic charged her and tried to slash her with his sword. Carstensen immediately ducked, reared her arm back, and struck the heretic in the gut with her power fist. The impact was so great the heretic keeled over and vomited in his sack hood. Grisly brown chunks trickled out of the mouthpiece.

Standing up, she struck him in the back of the head with her Bolt pistol then hit him in the side of the head with her power fist. Part of his skull caved in while the shock caused it to crack. The scalp burst and bloody brains oozed out as he fell over.

Instead of rejoining the Guardsmen, she held her ground and kept firing. Marsh did not wait any longer and ran out to get her. He heard cries from Barlocke to come back but he ignored them. Sliding into a crouch next to her, he peppered an approaching group of heretics with his lasgun. The renewed power saw them blown apart and singed by powerful, bright red lasbolts.

"Let us go, Junior Commissar!"

"Retreat!?" She shouted at him before gunning down another enemy. "Commissars must never retreat!"

"No ma'am, we're not retreating!" Marsh Silas yelled, thinking quickly. "We're regrouping at a more advantageous position!"

For a brief moment, she looked at him bemused. Despite whizzing lead, sizzling lasbots, heated explosions, and flying sand, Marsh Silas thought she saw her laugh. Instead, she let him take her by the arm and walk her back towards the others. It was not long before they were back with Barlocke, Hyram, and the growing numbers of Bloody Platoon.

Grenadiers and Heavy Weapons troopers began targeting the huts. Due to their flimsy construct, some did not explode, they were simply blown over. Others caught fire or disappeared in clouds of broken timbers and fractured metal. Blood, severed limbs, and mangled bodies were everywhere. Everyone was shooting and screaming; officers and sergeants issued commands, troopers called out targets, some hurled insults at the enemy, and others still just roared at the top of their lungs, adding to the bedlam.

Marsh felt water sloshing as his ankles. He and his team were backing up through the water now. Heretics were trying to swarm them, but they managed to keep them back. Some of the hostile combatants ignored the troops and began slogging through the lagoon. Marsh focused his fire on the ones trying to assault him and his comrades.

"Boats! They're going to the boats!" Yoxall shouted. "To the boats, to the boats!"

"Quickly now!"

As the demolition expert began charging for them, Marsh, Carstensen, and several others joined him. Other Guardsmen followed as well. Heretics clambered into their rickety rowboats and tried to paddle away. Marsh got to one of the empty boats first, primed a grenade, and tossed it in.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted and jogged back. The detonation broke the boat in two and sent planks of wood flying into the air. Corporal Tatum, howling like a beast, squeezed the triggers of his Flamer and set one of the boats alight. Half a dozen heretics were already on board and tumbled off, screaming. Doused by the salt water, they came back up, hissing and snarling. Tatum set these men on fire as well while other Guardsmen gunned them down.

Yoxall tossed a grenade into another boat and destroyed it. Splinters flew everywhere. Marsh felt them digging into his heavy coat and pricking his flesh. More heretics joined the fray, trying to defend the boats. Charge packs were losing energy and troopers were running out of autopistol magazines. Men began relying on their bayonets or drew trench knives or grabbed the entrenchment tools. Despite their weight of numbers, the heretics were not a match for well-trained, veteran Guardsmen.

Babcock planted the standard into the sediment and began fighting. As the flag whipped in the breeze, he fought beside it. Marsh saw him catch the wrist of a knife-armed heretic, twist it so badly the enemy dropped the knife, and then turn him over. Growling, Babcock forced the enemy's head beneath the water and drowned the flailing enemy. Derryhouse lined up targets with his plasma gun and fired. White-blue bolts hissed across the top of the water, leaving a spraying wake behind them. When it struck an enemy or the water, a great plume of salt spray would shoot in all directions. So many bullets, plasma bolts, lasbolts, and grenades were going off in the water, it seemed like it was raining. Monty Peck parried a sword blow with his M36's bayonet, then thrust it so hard into an enemy's belly it came out the other side. As the heretic died on the blade, he turned the body around at another charging enemy and squeezed the trigger. The dead heretic's back blew open as a red streak cut through and killed the hostile man behind him.

Bodies, debris, and wreckage floated in the water. It seemed like there was no end to the heretics. Only one boat remained and the occupants were beginning to row away. Out of grenades and exhausting their ammunition, Marsh waved over Yoxall, Carstensen, Tatum, and other troopers. "Form two lines, form two lines!"

Two rows of Guardsmen prepared to attack the boat. The first line crouched, while the second stood over them with their bayonets forward, like a shield. "Advaaaance!" Marsh ordered.

Marching through the water, steadily chanting, 'hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,' as they did, they approached the boat. The defenders tried to yank the bayonets from their comrades' hands or hit them with clubs, but the second line held. Along with the first line, Marsh grabbed the edge of the boat, rocked it, and then pushed it over. All the heretics came spilling into the water. Bellowing war cries, the two lines broke and threw themselves upon the sputtering, thrashing heretics. In moments, they were all beaten, stabbed, or drowned. Tatum then set the boat on fire with his Flamer.

Carstensen rallied them.

"Rally on the standard!" she cried, standing by Babcock and throwing her fist into the air. "Rally on the standard!"

The Guardsmen gathered around her and the flag. Babcock took it in hand and Marsh stood right beside the Junior Commissar. Her cap was gone and her red hair was loose from its bun. Hair swaying, teeth bared, eyes wide, coat waving in the surf, Marsh found courage in her resolve.

She pointed at the color-bearer. "Ready!?"

"Ready!"

Carstensen whirled around, tapped Marsh on the shoulder.

"Ready!?"

"Ready!" he cried.

Raising her voice, she called on all the men.

"Ready!?"

"We're ready!" they all shouted.

"Return to command!"

As one unit, the team doubled back and rejoined Barlocke and Hyram. Their contingent was holding position at the edge of the lagoon. Many were still in the water. Captain Giles was with them, firing his lasgun at the enemy. Lieutenant Eastoft's helmet was missing and blood was running down half of her face from a head wound.

"Why aren't we moving!?" Marsh hollered as he approached Hyram.

"The entrance is too small, we're backed up!" he shouted back and pointed towards the bulk of the troops. Marsh saw that dozens of troopers were trying to squeeze through the gap in between the rocky barriers. Some Guardsmen were resorting to climbing over them. Officers and sergeants were trying to direct the flow, but everything was in disarray. Senior officers were stuck on the other side.

Barlocke ran over and grabbed Hyram by the collar.

"How long until air support arrives!?"

"Less than five minutes!"

"Damn it all!" Barlocke swore. He surveyed the area and Marsh followed his gaze. Guardsmen were still struggling to get out of the cove. Heretics were streaming out of the cave, firing autoguns and brandishing melee weapons. Ammunition was running low and many were drawing their own hand weapons.

A look of frustration crossed the Inquisitor's face. Eventually, he turned back around. "Giles, Eastoft, Hyram!" The three assembled in front of him, bent over as rounds passed by. "Get to the head of the column and get them out. Carstensen, take Babcock and get the rearguard falling back."

"What about you!?" Hyram shouted. Barlocke smiled.

"I'll cover you, Sean."

A wave of inspiration flowed over Marsh Silas. At that moment, without his hat, wet, and covered with sand, Barlocke never looked more heroic than in all the combat they shared in the past weeks.

Resolve filled Marsh's chest. Standing up, he walked up beside Barlocke.

"As will I."

Hyram was about to argue but Barlocke held up his hand.

"There is no time. We shall cover the retreat. Now go!"

Members of Bloody Platoon began peeling away. Giles and Eastoft fired their last shots and ran alongside the body of Guardsmen. Hyram and Carstensen looked from Barlocke to Marsh Silas.

For a moment, a heartbroken expression crossed Hyram's face. It was as if he was asked to leave his boy behind. Then, he gritted his teeth and nodded. Reaching out, he grabbed and shook Marsh by the collar of his flak armour.

"You better be right behind us!" he yelled, then followed the others. Carstensen grimaced and began following.

"That's an order, Staff Sergeant!" she added.

Marsh watched them jog up the line. He turned to look at Barlocke. The Inquisitor grinned at him.

"I told you."

Not wishing to dignify his snide remark with a reply, Marsh walked forward, pressing deeper into the lagoon. There was a lull in the combat as smoke as thick smoke rolled from burning buildings, covering the lagoons in a gray mist. Smells of bitter saltwater, acrd gunpowder, and rank, burned flesh filled the air. Up to his knees in water, Marsh pressed his back into Barlocke's, knowing the heretics could from any direction.

It was quiet, save for the errant gunshot or lasbolt. Shouted commands rang out, but strangely, they sounded much farther off than they actually were.

Marsh felt Barlocke's back pressed into his more firmly. "Focus, Silvanus. Breathe deeply. Are you ready?"

Marsh was not sure what he meant. Ready to fight? Yes, he was. He was prepared to battle the heretics with his bare hands if necessary to protect his comrades. To die? Oddly enough, Marsh Silas felt cold at the thought. He did not feel ready even though he was so close to death. Mulling it over, he accepted it. But he murmured another prayer for protection.

"By the Emperor of Mankind, I am," he said.

Barlocke chuckled confidently.

"What's your kill count at?"

Marsh snorted and smiled.

"About to rise."

As Barlocke's laughter rippled through the air, the battle resumed. Heretics darted out of the mist, brandishing machetes and long knives. Exhausting his last charge pack, Marsh shot some down, then shouldered his weapon and pulled out his autopistol. He only squeezed off a few shots before having to reload.

"On your right!" Barlocke shouted over his shoulder. In one motion, the pair turned around. Barlocke used his last Ripper pistol magazine to kill the marauding heretic.

"I'm jammed," Marsh said, trying to clear his sidearm.

"No time!"

More came out of the mist. Drawing his power sword and activating it, coating the blade in blue energy, Marsh ran a heretic through. Withdrawing the blade, he slashed another heretic diagonally across his unarmoured chest before cutting his throat with the edge.

Marsh looked over his shoulder. Barlocke was holding an enemy warrior with one hand and jamming his sword through his gut. Two more were running at him.

"Switch!" Marsh shouted. Turning again, the platoon sergeant took his place. He raised his sword and caught the two machetes of two heretics. Kicking one in the gut, he forced the other one back. He stumbled in a way that exposed the back of his knee, and Marsh quickly swiped the edge of his sword across it. Crying out, the heretic fell over. The other was already on their feet and tried to ruh him. Marsh hit him with the pommel of his sword, turned, and ran him through. He then beheaded the wounded heretic, who was unable to get up.

"Duck!"

Marsh crouched as low as he could. He saw Barlocke's sword fly above his head and cut into an enemy who he hadn't seen approaching on his right. "Switch!"

Staying low as they traded positions once again, Marsh cut off an enemy's lower while Barlocke decapitated another.

"Switch!" they yelled together, simultaneously swapping positions and stabbing heretics.

"Is the regiment through yet!?" Marsh asked. He was facing the cove and watching shadows move in the mist.

"Almost. Let's start falling back ourselves."

"Right. Here, take my sword," Marsh said, handing it over.

"What about you?" Barlocke asked.

Marsh reached down to the scabbard taped to his boot and drew his trench knife. He slid his fingers into the metal loops that formed the steel knuckles attached to the grip. Then, he reached behind and yanked his Type Nine-Seventy entrenchment tool from his rucksack.

"I've got _these_," he said with a cavalier grin. Barlocke just smiled.

As they began to back up, the heretics pressed their attacks. Using one sword to block and the other to attack, Barlocke stopped heretics in their tracks and swiftly dispatched them. One enemy came rushing at Marsh Silas. Swinging the flat side of his entrenchment tool, he hit his opponent in the face. Knocking him to the ground, he turned his knife over and sliced his throat open. Just as he stood up, he punched with the knuckled guard of his trench knife; on impact, he could hear the heretic's jaw breaking. Teeth flew out of the mouth slit cut into his sack hood. Another came at him, swinging with a club. Marsh caught the club with the handle of his nine-seventy, brought it down hard so it took the club from the enemy's hand, and flipped it in his hand. One side of the tool had a sharpened edge and he brought this down in between the corrupted man's neck and shoulder. The blow was so severe his shoulder became slightly separated from the rest of the body.

Marsh kicked him off. There was no time to finish him, as another heretic was running at him. This one lacked a weapon entirely. Although he wore a sack hood, the mouth opening was wider than others. He could see the twisted being's jagged, bared teeth and blackened, wiggling tongue. Saliva ran down underneath the opening. Lowering himself and scrambling across the sand like a beast, he lunged at Marsh Silas. Still holding his knife, he held the entrenchment tool with both hands and blocked the heretic. So wild was his opponent, he bit on the handle of the tool and snarled at him.

Shaking him off did not work. Struggling for control, Marsh finally lowered it somewhat and headbutted the heretic. His helmet absorbed the shock but his head still shook terrible. Dazed, the heretic let go and stumble. Rotating, Marsh swiped him off his feet with the tool and the corrupted one landed on his belly. Turning his knife over, Marsh brought the point down into the back of its head and twisted.

"Come on!" Marsh Silas screamed, baring his teeth.

"Silvanus and Barlocke!" the Inquisitor screamed defiantly as he gored another heretic.

"Barlocke and Silvanus!" Marsh cried.

Just as they prepared for another wave, rockets pummeled the area. Marsh looked behind him and saw a pair of Vulture gunships glide towards the cove. He felt the urge to cheer, but it was caught short as both fired volleys of missiles. Falling one after another, the barrage crept closer towards the pair. Just as they turned to flee, an explosion sent them reeling.

When Marsh came too, he could hardly see anything. Gray smoke and sand clouds whirled around him. Both ears were ringing and he felt a burning sensation in his side. As he tried to sit up, pain shot through his core. Pressing his hand to the epicenter of the shock, he felt some hot and hard. Looking down, he saw a thin piece of shrapnel the size of his palm embedded in his side. Some blood stained the tan fatigues around it.

Groaning, he fought the agony as best he could and tried to get up. As he did, he saw another form nearby. Barlocke was on his side, nearly curled up into a ball.

At first, Marsh Silas's heart froze. He thought the Inquisitor was dead. Terrified, he began to crawl over to him and assess his condition. By the Emperor's blessing, Barlocke stirred when he was halfway over. Marsh uttered a quick prayer of thanks and stopped.

Barlocke rolled over so he was on his hands and knees. Rising up, his face tightened as he felt his torso. He too sustained a shrapnel wound and there was blood running from his left ear. When he was able to sustain it, he opened his eyes and gazed at Marsh Silas. Oddly, the platoon sergeant found himself smiling. Grinning back, Barlocke sat back down and gave a slovenly salute. After catching his breath, he reached over and grabbed the two power swords. Both were deactivated. Marsh felt around and found his trench knife and entrenchment tool. Out of the mist in front of them, they could see shadowy forms moving.

Marsh knew it was only wishful thinking the Vultures completely wiped out the enemy garrison. He felt oddly calm despite the numerous heretics approaching him through the smoke. With his entrenchment tool and trench knife ready, he was prepared to fight.

Just as the first insane enemy combatant came charging into a view, a series of red lasbolts struck him. Others were cut down as well. Bolt shells struck another and tore his midsection into bloody pulp.

Hyram came into view, along with Carstensen, Giles, Eastoft, and seemingly the rest of Bloody Platoon.

The platoon leader grabbed Babcock, pulled him close, and began waving his arm.

"Form a line on the standard!" he hollered, waving and cupping his other hand around his mouth. "Form a line on the standard!"

Bloody Platoon quickly assembled. Heretics were still coming at them, brandishing makeshift spears and wooden clubs. Their howling filled the air, combating the prayers, orders, and war cries of the Shock Troopers.

A single rank of troopers formed, with Hyram, Carstensen, and Babcock in the center. Hyram raised one arm high into the air. "Mark your targets before you fire! Ready, my command, fire!"

The line erupted into a dazzling lightshow of red, blue, and gold. Marsh could have laughed; Bloody Platoon was resupplied!

Hyram came back from the firing line and ordered several troopers to help Barlocke. As soon as they came over, he pushed them away and rose to his feet. Sheathing his power sword, he took a laspistol from Sergeant Holmswood and joined the fray. Ignoring the Inquisitor, Hyram ran over to Marsh and assessed his wound. Without another word, he let his lasgun hang by the strap, went around Marsh Silas, hooked his arms under his, and began dragging him. As he did, he called, "Bloody Platoon, fall back in order!"  
Slowly, the firing line began to withdraw. Holding ranks, they fired as they did. When Guardsmen reloaded charge packs, they crouched before they resumed firing. Heretics charged forward with more zeal than they possessed during the entire battle. In their greatest number, they came storming out of the mist. Bloody Platoon fended them off, but some bypassed engaged troopers and tried to rush Marsh and Hyram. Each time this occurred, Hyram would drop the platoon sergeant and quickly dispatch the enemy with his lasgun. After the second time, he took out his laspistol and handed it to Marsh.

More broke through. Struggling to am as he was dragged, Marsh Silas was able to pick a few off. Blue lasbolts blew off arms at the shoulder, ripped open bellies, and blew knee caps open.

Bloody Platoon's single rank was holding, but it was beginning to bow backwards into a semicircle.

Carstensen stepped off the line, dragging Drummer Boy with her.

"Tell those Vultures to circle around and finish the job!" she screamed in his face. Drummer Boy shouldered his lasgun, grabbed the handheld, and began calling them back. Minutes later, one of the gunships hovered above and began raking the ground in front of them with Heavy Bolter fire. Spent shell casings rained down on the troopers below.

After ordering Drummer Boy to fall back and direct their fire, Carstensen ran over to Hyram. While he took one of Marsh's arms, she took the other, and they began dragging him backwards faster.

"Bloody Platoon, fall back, double-time, quickly now!" Hyram shouted. One by one, troopers tapped each other on the shoulder, retreated several meters, then held position to cover the other Guardsmen. Although they were giving ground as a group, the lack of a firing line was allowing the heretics to close in. Heretics broke through, trying to pierce the center of the platoon. Just as several charged to overtake Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen, Giles and Eastoft killed them with lasguns. The pair stood in front and added their firepower to the withdrawal.

Marsh was aiming his laspistol, waiting for a heretic to come into his sights, when he saw Arnold Yoxall fall. The demolition expert clutched his thigh and let out a short shout. Looking up, he pointed.

"Enemies on the rocks! We're flanked!"

Marsh looked up and saw them. Heretics were scrambling up the jagged rocks. Some leaped off, only to be shot in midair or to fall on bayonets. Others embedded themselves in cracks and crevices, firing autoguns.

Knowing he could not get his friend himself, Marsh reached up and grabbed Hyram by the collar of his flak armour.

"Get him, sir!" he screamed. "Get Arnold, get him!"

Immediately, the platoon leader let go and grabbed Yoxall. Instead of dragging him, he stood him up, threw him over his shoulders, and carried him out of sight. Heretics jumped down and tried to rush Marsh. Before he could bring his sidearm to bear, Giles and Eastoft threw themselves on him, covering him with their bodies, and shot the encroaching enemies. More came down, wielding stub pistols and slapdash autoguns. Rounds bounced off of flak armour and made troopers fall. Experience and training saved their lives as they returned fire and attacked with bayonets. Blood splashed on the churned up sand, wounded heretics writhed and screamed, Guardsmen shouted.

Giles and Eastoft got off of Marsh Silas. There were few Guardsmen in front of them now, forming up on Carstensen and the wounded platoon sergeant. Ordering them to return to him, Giles cleared their field of fire. Forming a staggered line, they withdrew slowly.

Suddenly, a war cry rent the air that sent a chill down Marsh's spine. It was not so much a bellow as it was a series of demented blathering, insane cackling, and shrill, inhuman screaming. Out of the mist came a wall of enemies. Carrying an assortment of weapons ranging from barely functional autoguns to axes, clubs, and swords, they came barreling along.

"Prepare yourselves, Guardsmen!" Carstensen yelled. "Today is the day we shall achieve victory or our souls meet the God-Emperor of Mankind's!"

Marsh sat up, raising his laspistol. He looked up. Carstensen looked at him and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly with her hand before grabbing her Bolt pistol. On his other side, Captain Giles patted his shoulder pauldron. Eastoft just offered a respectful nod, though her vivid violet eyes sparkled with comradeship.

As the horde closed the gap, Marsh closed his eyes and took one deep breath. With the enemy's thundering feet and deafening roaring ringing in his ears, he thought of his mother, alone on Macharia, and then his father, walking down the Kasr road on winter nights. As their faces settled in his mind and he echoed their sweet voices, he thought of the Emperor. How he wanted so badly to live, to continue serving Him, and repay His grace with good works. But if the Emperor needed him now, he could not deny Him.

Marsh opened his eyes. Just as he did, a crimson uniform shot past. It was Commissar Ghent. He snatched Carstensen's Bolt pistol; holding his own in his other hand, he stood in front and began raking the enemy forward line with fire. Shells exploded, obliterating heretics, tearing off their limbs, blowing up heads, chests, and bellies. Guts, limbs, blood, and corpses fell in droves.

As he fired, he walked backwards. When he stopped to reload, he turned and face them.

"I have not given any of you permission to die!" he screamed. "Now fall back on the quick-time!"

Ghent stood in front of Marsh Silas and kept firing. Other Guardsmen crept back, shooting as they did.

Suddenly, the arms under his own went away. Marsh looked up and found Captain Murga standing over him. The company commander clutched his webbing and stood Marsh up. Once they were face-to-face, he slapped him on the side of his helmet.

"Let's get you out of here, Staff Sergeant!" he yelled before picking him and throwing him across his shoulders.

Murga began walking backwards, firing into the enemy ranks with his own laspistol. Ghent fell in beside him, slid a fresh magazine into Carstensen's Bolt pistol, and threw it back to her. She began firing. Barlocke, Hyram, Giles, and Eastoft grouped around them, shooting as fast as they could. Bloody Platoon trickled through the gap in the rocks, pouring relentless fire into the enemy. Almost everyone was dragging, carrying, or supporting a wounded Guardsman. Collections of heretics fell in such frequency they became piles. Soon, the corrupted began to claw and run over their own dead to try and overrun the Guardsmen.

When everyone came through the entrance to the cove, they quickly turned and ran. Marsh quickly understood why. Assembled in a line were scores of Heavy Weapons Squads armed with Heavy Bolters and Autocannons. Behind them were two ranks of Guardsmen; the first rank was crouching while the second stood. Lieutenant Comstock of Second Platoon was holding his sword in the air and gazing grimly at the gap.

Marsh, atop Murga's shoulders, was the last to clear the field of fire. Barely a moment later, Comstock lowered his sword sharply.

"Fiiiiiire!" he hollered. Both firing lines and the Heavy Weapons Squads blasted the gap with automatic fire. Scores of heretics fell as they tried to burst from the breach. Soon, it became clogged with their dead. A grisly bulwark appeared, oozing with blood and exposed intestines. But the heretics kept coming, climbing over the top of the organic barricade. Corpses tumbled down the front or fell backwards. Little by little, it grew as tall as two Guardsmen standing on each other's shoulders. Only then did the attack stop.

Vulture gunships made another gun run and began peppering the cove with Heavy Bolter fire again. Comstock quickly ordered the Heavy Weapons Squads to disassemble their mounts and fell back. Once they were clear, Comstock broke the two ranks and ordered them down the beach.

Marsh gazed back at the cove, watching the yellow tracer rounds stream behind the natural walls. Waves crashed and broke on the beach and seawall, sending white spray into the air. Looking forward, he watched as the 1333th Regiment retreated up the beach. It looked like a river of olive drab armour and tan winter fatigues. Around him, he could see Hyram and Barlockee the former was supporting the other. Carstensen jogged alongside Drummer Boy, Babcock, Giles, and Eastoft. Members of Bloody Platoon were all around as well. Everyone was wet and coated with sand. Many of their faces were covered in black or gray soot. Nobody spoke, save for the occasional order from a sergeant or officer for the troops to keep moving. Panting filled the air, accompanied by rustling rucksacks, squeaking leather boots, and thudding feet in the packed sand. Some of the troopers were smiling, others shed tears as they ran.

Marsh just let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

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	25. Part IV: Chapter 25

Part 4: Chapter 25

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The 1333th Cadian Regiment began to retreat in good order. From the initial confusion and chaos of the withdrawal, Guardsmen from different companies were mixed together. But company commanders, platoon leaders, and sergeants rounded up the men and organized them into three columns. One could hear their frenzied boot-falls become more coordinated. Between their rucksacks and heavy boots their footsteps were very audible, making a series of distinct clumping, pattering sounds. In formation, their unsteady trot slowed down until they were marching. Their feet fell together, creating a constant, heavy _clump, clump, clump _in the sand.

On either side of the columns, officers and sergeants ushered the men on. Waving their arms and pointing down the beach, they gave orders and offered encouragement to keep pushing on. Fatigue was evident on all of the Cadians' faces and their ragged panting. Men wheezed and sucked for air, trying to catch their breath.

An explosion far to the rear made Marsh Silas open his eyes and gaze back at the cove. Both Vultures continued to hover near it. Rockets left smoke trails in the air behind them. When they fell behind the high, jagged rock walls, great plumes of white salt spray and gray sand shot skyward. When the gunships expended their munitions, they began firing their nose-mounted Heavy Bolters. Streams of red tracers sprayed from the hot barrels. Suddenly, rockets flew up from the cove. Both Vultures evaded, darting immediately to the side just in time. After narrowly avoiding a second series of rockets, the two gunships peeled away.

Marsh could hear their unnerved, but ultimately unwavering voices on Drummer Boy's Vox-caster. Both pilots remarked how close they came to being hit and then reported their fuel situation to the men below. The leading pilot declared they were returning to base to refuel and rearm; both would be ready to provide support again within the half hour. As they passed by, many of the Shock Troopers waved or held up their fists and cheered. Flying by, the Vultures dipped their wings from to side, a signal of salutations.

"Holding up alright then, Staff Sergeant?" Murga asked, his voice strained from carrying Marsh Silas on uneven ground.

"Well enough, sir," Marsh groaned, "though this here metal in my side is a great discomfort."

"Honeycutt will patch you up soon enough."

Murga was at the head of the column with his command squad. Hayhurst jogged up alongside them and pointed an accusatory finger at the wounded non-commissioned officer.

"Call yourself a Shock Trooper, do ye? Ya ain't fit to call yerself a Cadian. What fool goes and gets himself wounded by shrapnel in such a way? It ain't been but a week since yer last wounding. Ain't you's supposed to be smarter an' that, boy?"

"Enough, First Sergeant!" Murga snapped. "Marsh Silas fought with honor and defended our withdrawal heroically. He should be proud of the wound he sustained and we ought to be thankful for his valor. Now, double-back and bring up the rear of the column."

Hayhurst pursed his lips, nodded, and left. Marsh watched the hulking company sergeant trundle down the line.

When he looked forward, he could see Murga craning his neck to look at him from the corner of his eye. "Mind him not. Hayhurst is just sorry he did not get a piece of the action. I'm damned proud of you, Marsh Silas. You'll be put in for another medal for that."

The platoon sergeant's heart swelled with pride and it was very difficult not to smile. For a brief moment, he did not feel the burning pain in his side. But he maintained his composure and simply nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank me not, thank the Emperor this day."

Barlocke was beside the pair and he reached over to squeeze Marsh's shoulder.

"Yes, well done."

The Inquisitor was clutching his chest wound. Like Marsh Silas, he too was wounded by shrapnel. It was smaller than the piece embedded in the platoon sergeant's left side, but nonetheless, it was clearly causing him pain. Barlocke's mouth remained open and his breath was shallow. His dark brown eyes, normally aloof and curious, were narrow and focused. Even as he congratulated Marsh, his eyes remained fixed to the path ahead of him. Sweat coated his forehead, his brow was low and knitted over his eyes, and each time he took a step he winced. Although subtle, Marsh could see the pain briefly etched into his pale, handsome features. When his foot fell, the natural vibration ran up his leg and faded in his chest. Despite the dwindling sensation, it was enough to make the wound throb. Each time, the skin around his eyes tightened and his eyelids threatened to close. Over time, his breath became more ragged to the point it whistled through his clenched teeth.

Alongside the Inquisitor was Lieutenant Hyram. The junior officer was bearing the weight of Arnold Yoxall very well. Despite the cessation of action, his face was still contorted as if in battle. Muscles in his jawline bulged and his eyes were very wide. But he moved at a steady pace and drew breath in a controlled fashion like a proper Shock Trooper. Thrown over the Lieutenant's shoulder, Yoxall was doing his best to hold on. Like many Cadians, he was broad in the chest and slightly above average height. Hyram was slightly smaller than him thus he was having to utilize more of his strength to carry the wounded demolition expert.

Gritting his teeth, Yoxall looked up at Marsh. The latter grinned back, risked letting go of Murga's webbing, and saluted. Although it took him a moment, Yoxall was able to return the gesture.

"Got a wee pain in my leg," he said, managing a smile. One of his arms was wrapped around Hyram's front, clutching his webbing. The other gripped his right thigh, which was still bleeding heavily. The entire side of his heavy, tan field trousers was soaked in blood so deep and dark in color it was nearly black.

To see one of his closest, oldest friends losing so much blood greatly disturbed Marsh Silas. A massive pit formed in his stomach to the point it almost made him nauseous. Even his heart rate spiked. So great was his fear he forgot his own pain once more.

_He shall not die. I shall keep my promise to you._

Barlocke's voice did seem to pierce his mind as it usually did. Instead, it seemed to leak through his chest, wrap around his lungs, follow his bones and slither up his spine. As it reached the inner recess of his mind, it coiled up like a snake and settled. Cold and damp, the words lingered, echoing off the walls of his skull. Just as the voice began to fade, it came back louder than before before finally vanishing like warm breath in cool air.

Rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh tried to work out the uncomfortable feeling. Looking up, he gazed at the Inquisitor. Barlocke's gaze remained on the beach ahead of them.

Although his voice was absent from his mind once more, Marsh knew his presence was still there.

_We shall see._

Marsh mulled the thought in his mind as he continued to glare at Barlocke's side. The only indication the Inquisitor gave was a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

The regiment eventually made its way back to the valley above the beachside cliffs. Upon entering the short, yellow prairie grass, the three columns dispersed. Colonel Isaev ordered the most able body unit, Third Company, to form an inverted crescent. Augmented with the Heavy Weapons Squads from other companies, the firing line was able to cover both the approach to the beach and the bluffs running along the beach. Once in place, the troops began to dig in. First, they scraped out fighting holes and firing pits for individual squads or weapons emplacements. Then, they proceeded to connect their positions with knee-high trenches for quick, semi-protected movement. After further solidifying their positions, they cleared their fields of fire of grass by cutting it down with the sharpened edges of their Type Nine-Seventy entrenchment tools.

While Third Company braced for a counterattack, First and Second Companies erected a series of tents for the wounded. With harsher, chillier winds rolling from the sea, the medics needed stable environments to operate. As well, the command element needed a private area to reconvene and plan their next move. Removed by about a hundred standard yards from the perimeter, First Company was deployed in a coil around the cluster of about fifteen large tents. Like Third Company, they dug firing pits and fighting holes, cleared their fields of fire, and steeled themselves for an assault.

Meanwhile, the medics gathered up the wounded and brought them into the tents. Five tents were reserved for category one casualties, who were in critical conditions. These were Guardsmen suffering from anything from amputations to arterial bleeds. Before they were even seated on stretchers which served as operating tables, Voxmen were speaking into their handsets requesting medical evacuation. Category two casualties were not in as dire a state but still needed immediate attention. Walking wounded, or category three casualties, were removed to another set of tents where the junior medics and field chirurgeons administered treatment. Minor wounds from grazes and ricochete wounds to in-and-out gunshots were easily dressed.

Marsh Silas found himself with other category two patients. By the time he was set down on one of the stretchers, he was feeling the pain. The metal in his left side was no longer hot but it still seemed to burn. It seemed to grind against his flesh each time he made a slight movement. But he was being moved so much by other Guardsmen it was impossible not to feel it.

Hissing through his teeth, he laid back as Honeycutt and a field chirurgeon from Second Squad, Salvia, who had a square face and deep-set violet eyes, removed his flak armour. Others who were present in the tent at Honeycutt's demand held up their lamp packs. Warm, yellow light filled the tents.

While Salvia set the webbing aside, Honeycutt filled out a triage card with a stubby field quill. The senior medic removed his helmet and his short, sweaty blonde hair seemed to shine in the lamp pack glow.

"Breathing, check. Mental state and orientation; can you tell me your name, rank, place of birth, and your mother's name?"

"Silas Cross, Staff Sergeant, Kasr Polaris, Faye Cross."

"Follow my finger with just your eyes."

Honeycutt held up his index finger, gave Marsh a moment to focus, and then moved it left, then right, up, down, and finally in a circle. Without lagging, Marsh's violet eyes followed his finger perfectly.

"Mental state, check," Honeycutt grunted. "Orientated. Contamination, no..."

The medic went down the list, checking everything off. When he finished, he tore off the green strip at the bottom of the tag, leaving the orange category two strip. Using a folding pin, he flipped the tag to Marsh's sleeve then reached into his kit to retrieve two white surgical gloves.

Using a pair of scissors, he cut away the material around the wound. Carefully peeling the bloody wool away until the shrapnel and the skin of the surrounding impact area was exposed, he gingerly inspected it. "Penetrating injury, shrapnel."

Honeycutt looked up and frowned. "You could have walked."

"I don't need none o' yer lip, Honeycutt, treat me before I bleed to death," Marsh wheezed through his teeth.

The medic said nothing. Reaching into his kit, he pulled out a vial and a syringe. Taking off the cap, he carefully inserted the needle through the soft center of the lid and drew the pump back. Clear liquid filled the tube almost to the halfway mark. While he checked the syringe, Salvia unbuttoned Marsh's heavy overcoat, pulled his right arm out of the sleeve, then did the same to his field tunic. Left in his undershirt, Marsh could feel the bitter cold coming through the half-open flap at the entrance of the tent.

Rolling up the short shirt sleeve until his entire bicep was exposed, Salvia then reached over and took the syringe from Honeycutt. Marsh felt a brief pinch in his skin as the pain nullifier was injected. Within a minute, he felt the pain subside from a sharp, burning to a dull ache.

The relief made it feel as though the vise around his midsection was finally released. Tilting his head back, he sighed very loudly and opened his mouth.

As Salvia moved to the other side with Honeycutt, the tent opened and Lieutenant Hyram came in. He took Salvia's place on Marsh's right side and placed a hand on his chest. The two looked at each other for a few moments before the Lieutenant smiled at him. It was a kind, charitable smirk.

Marsh did not find resolve in it but rather reassurance. He did not realize he was smiling back. All he did was move his hand on top of Hyram's, patting the top and keeping it there for some time. Hyram did not seem to mind in the slightest. Although he was still on edge from his waning adrenaline and suffering from the aching in his side, he felt more at ease.

Junior Commissar Carstensen came in next and stood behind Hyram. She examined Marsh for a few moments, then leaned forward while keeping her hands on her knees.

"What's it going to be?" she asked Honeycutt.

"The shrapnel has penetrated the fleshy part of his torso," he explained in an informed, authoritative tone. "It isn't posing a threat to his internal organs and blood loss is minimal. But further movement could exacerbate the wound and cause further internal damage. A Valkyrie ride is out of the question."

"Exacerbate?" Marsh asked, looking back towards Hyram.

"Worsen."

"We are going to extract it." Honeycutt looked up briefly. "Immediately."

As they laid out their surgical tools, Marsh looked up at the ceiling of the tent. He knew it was going to hurt terribly.

By the Emperor's blessing and protection, he was spared from serious injury throughout his ten years of service in Cadian Shock Troops. Receiving shrapnel or getting shot in an unarmoured part of his body was not unfamiliar to him. Several times, he was in situations which nearly took his life, but through comradeship, fighting spirit, and the Emperor's will, he survived.

But it was not going to be like the times when bullets were easily taken from his flesh, when they did not strike bone and passed arteries. Taking it out was going to be arduous and beyond painful. Marsh Silas wanted to be brave and withstand the agony like a true Cadian. If he was able to stay behind and face a horde of deranged, demented heretics then he could resist such physical torment.

Yet, he did not feel ready. Mustering his courage seemed to be futile. Already, he could feel his heart beating faster and harder. It was as if it was in his throat. His breathing was becoming faster and ragged. As he saw the tools glint in the lamp light, he heard himself sigh with each breath. He gripped Hyram's hands tightly to the point he could see pain on the platoon leader's face. Hyram's spoke and his tone was encouraging, but the words were indecipherable. All Marsh could see were the tools the medics were preparing and he did not want to feel the pain.

Like in the middle of battle, he heard everything at a sharper tone. Every voice, metallic clink of tools, rucksack rustle, or shouted order outside the tent pierced his eardrums and made him shake.

Suddenly, the noise went away. For a moment, he thought he went deaf. Then, he saw the tent flap open. Barlocke entered; he was still wearing his uniform and blood continued to drip from the edges of his shrapnel wound. Only his wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat was missing.

Carstensen and Hyram stood up. He took the latter's spot, knelt, and clutched Marsh's hand. With his other, he cupped the side of the platoon sergeant's head, nestling his fingertips in his blonde hair.

_Can you hear me, Silvanus? _

His soothing voice came over him slowly. It was as if he was listening to raindrops in a rare summer drizzle. Immediately, he felt his heart rate and breathing slow. Marsh felt indescribably calm. All fear he felt dissipated; he did not even feel pain anymore. Looking into Barlocke's deep brown eyes, a strange peace he never imagined came over him.

Slowly, he nodded.

_I can, Barlocke. _

Barlocke squeezed his hand tightly.

_Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and I will take you somewhere. Anywhere you'd like to go, and we shall go. Merely think of it and it will be so._

After staring at the Inquisitor for a few moments longer, Marsh did just as he asked.

* * *

Young Silas found himself running to the reinforced glass window of the downstairs study. A roaring fire snapped and crackled in the hearth. Its glow flickered on the desk and armchairs in the office. Running to the control pad, he pressed the deactivation button and the armour-plated shutters opened. Pressing his nose to the thick glass, he watched as a Chimera trundled down the zig-zagging blocks of the road. It came to a stop right in front of his home and the ramp lowered.

In the thick snowfall blanketing Kasr Polaris, he saw a cadre of Cadian officers step down the ramp. Each one was dressed in a superb, crisp tan overcoat and low-peaked caps. Each one carried a large, Militarum-issue olive drab travel bag. The officers gathered on the street to shake hands and pat each other on the back. It was difficult to see their faces in the industrial lamps and searchlights that scanned the environment. Fortified mansions for regimental commanders loomed over them on each side of the jagged road. Eventually, they said their goodbyes and departed in separate directions.

Smiling eagerly, he waited for one to come down the path towards his home. One by one, they all veered away. Slowly, the smile faded and melancholy sank into his heart. A single officer remained, lighting a pipe. In the brief orange flash of his match, Silas tried to see his face but the light was too weak. Waving it out, he flicked it away and began walking down the road. Winter wind caught the pale smoke from his pipe and cast it high into the air. He passed by the entrance to their short yard, then stopped. For a few moments, he lingered there, his shoulder facing the mansion's face. Silas watched, blinking away the tears threatening in the corners of his eyes.

Suddenly, the officer turned on his heel, passed through the gate, and walked steadily towards the house. Gasping, Silas ran to the door, unlocked it, and grunting in effort, threw it open. Cold wind blasted through the entryway and snowflakes buffeted his tan sweater. Standing before him was his father, Dayton.

Dropping his bag and crouching in the same moment, Dayton held his arms out.

"Silas, my boy!" he cried.

"Papa!"

Silas leaped into him, laughing and crying as he felt his father's big arms wrap around him.

When they finally let go of one another, Dayton stood Silas in front of him. He took his pipe from his mouth and cast the ashes out through the doorway, then let it fall on the step.

"Let me look at you, let me look at you," he said eagerly, sniffing as he did. "Oh, just look at you. You're getting so tall. Big too. You'll be very strong, I'm sure of it."

Tears were coursing down his father's cheeks. Dayton laughed happily and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. "C'mere, boy, come, come." He pulled Silas back into his arms and squeezed him so tightly it nearly hurt. Silas did not mind in the slightest.

"You're going to let the chill in."

Silas turned around. His mother, Faye, was leaning against the corner of the wall leading to the dining room. She was wearing a tan sweater, the same one she wore when she served in the Cadian Shock Troops. Her long, wavy blonde hair fell down onto her shoulders. Dark bags were under her eyes and her pale features were fatigued from her long shifts at the factorum. But her faded violet eyes twinkled and a smile tugged at her pink lips.

Dayton stood up and uncovered his own thick crop of blonde hair. He ran his hand through it, smoothing it back. For a moment, he stood dumbly and awkwardly. Silas looked between him and his mother, confused. Eventually, Dayton stepped forward, his black boots thudding on the floor. As he approached, Faye closed the distance. The sleeves of her sweater were too long for her arms and covered her hands. She draped her arms around his neck and he hugged her middle. Without any words, they closed their eyes and kissed one another deeply.

For a time, they remained that way; lips locked, chests pressed together, eyes shut tightly. It was as if they became statues.

When they parted, tears ran down Faye's cheeks. Dayton's own were glimmering.

"I prayed to the God-Emperor for this moment," Silas's father said wistfully, his voice thick with emotion.

"As did I," Faye said, her voice cracking.

"I thank Him for making it so," Dayton said.

Suddenly, the rigidity in Faye's trembling legs gave out. As she sank, Dayton went with her, his arms around her. Once more, they embraced. Her hands went to his cheeks and she kissed him again. Then, she nuzzled her head against his chest and sobbed into it.

Dayton turned and looked at Silas. A moment after he did, Faye looked as well. To see his parents so tearfully happy brought them to his own eyes. When they each held an arm out to him, he sniffed and walked into them. He put an arm around each of them and they pulled him in tightly. As father, mother, and son held one another, the wind blew hard. A flurry of snowflakes rushed through the doorway and all became white.

* * *

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He felt a tear course down each of his cheeks. It felt as though he awoke from the most restful, peaceful slumber in his entire life. Immediately, he was greeted by Barlocke's pale face. His eyes were closed. A moment passed and he opened them. Tears glittered in his dark brown eyes. Hyram appeared on his left and Carstensen on the right, gazing curiously but ultimately relieved at Marsh.

Barlocke wiped one of Marsh's tears with his thumb, withdrew his hand from the side of Marsh's face, and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. With a sniff and a sigh, he shook his head and smiled.

"So, the sweater you wear is your mother's?" he asked. "How sweet."

Blinking, Marsh's cheeks heated up.

"I don't, it's, shut up," he said, breaking his gaze. Barlocke laughed so handsomely then it was impossible for Marsh not to join in.

_That was certainly beautiful. _

Barlocke's voice was warm in his mind, like when the sun broke through gray winter clouds and shone on one's face. His smile became very sweet.

Marsh reached up, gripped the Inquisitor by the space between his neck and shoulder, and squeezed gently.

_Twas a time when life seemed perfect. Thank you for letting me see it once more. _

Barlocke tilted his head to the side, resting his cheek on Marsh's hand briefly.

_Anything for you, my dearest friend. _

"You were so still, I feared death took you," Hyram admitted. His tone was light and relieved.

"You seemed so at peace," Carstensen murmured.

Marsh Silas heard metal tools clinking. For a moment, his heart jumped as he looked to his left. But he was very surprised to see the thin shard of bloody shrapnel sitting in a tin tray. Specks of blood were on the rim and plate of the tray. Looking down, he saw his midsection was bandaged all the way around. Honeycutt and Salvia took off their white surgical gloves which had blood on the fingers, washed their hands in a small basin of water, then sterilized their surgical instruments. Once they finished, they donned new gloves.

He stared at the piece of shrapnel, then went to touch his side. Honeycutt snatched his wrist.

"You're bandaged, there's a shock pad underneath, and it's been heavily stitched. We were able to extract it without causing any internal damage. Superficial wound; it should heal nicely."

"By the Emperor..." Marsh Silas murmured in amazement. With wide eyes and a bigger smile, he turned and faced Barlocke. "...I don't feel a thing!"

"The Emperor protects," Salvia said.

"So does a healthy dose of nullifiers," Honeycutt added. "Valkyries are inbound. You're reduced to category three so you shall be one of the last to be evacuated back to Army's Meadow."

"What? No, I'm not going back. The fight is unfinished," Marsh implored.

He sat up, but Honeycutt, Barlocke, and Hyram each put a hand on his chest and held him back. Marsh looked in each of their faces, searching for an ally in his plight.

"You need to get back to base and rest. If you stay, you could _exacerbate _that wound and then you'd be an impediment."

"Well, I don't know what that there word means so I don't care much for it," Marsh said to Hyram, frowning. "Just give me a stim and I'll be on my feet in no time."

"It means-"

"I don't think he cares," Carstensen said.

"No, I'm teaching him his letters."

"We're not in a lecture hall, Lieutenant," Barlocke put in.

"Enough, enough!" Marsh said, waving his hand and pushing their arms away. Grunting, he rose to his feet. His coat, tunic, and shirt hung off his right side. Defiantly, he looked into their faces. "I can stand, I can move." He proved it by marching back and forth across the tent. "And if I can do that, then by the Emperor, I can fight."

Hyram and Carstensen exchanged a wary glance, then looked at Honeycutt. The medic pursed his lips, shook his head, and shrugged. All eyes went to Barlocke, who was still kneeling. He turned halfway to look back at Marsh Silas.

Looking at everyone nervously, the platoon sergeant knelt quickly beside the Inquisitor and put his hand on his shoulder. "You two are wounded. If I must go, surely you must too. But you _can't_𑁋you're in charge. We shall go together, then. Barlocke and Silvanus, Silvanus and Barlocke."

Barlocke's mouth opened a little bit, but after a moment he let out a sigh that was also sort of a laugh. Shaking his head, he took Marsh by the shoulder and stood up. Putting his hands on the Inquisitor's side, Marsh helped him to his feet.

"How can I resist? Look at that face, it is that of a child's."

Honeycutt stood up.

"Inquisitor, with respect, a wound like that𑁋"

"Worry not, I'll see to it the platoon sergeant behaves himself. Now, regimental command is still organizing the defense in case the heretics mount a nighttime attack. Once we're completely dug in and the Valkyries have taken the more severely wounded away, I am quite certain Colonel Isaev will rally the officers to plan our own secondary assault. When that time comes, I want you there. Until then, go rest. Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, see to it that he does."

"Yes, sir."

While Hyram gathered Marsh's wargear, the platoon sergeant went over to Honeycutt. Put out, the medic nonetheless dug into his medkit, and took out a case. Unlocking it, he revealed an array of pre-filled syringes. Taking out a standard stimulant, he tested the plunger and clear liquid squirted out. Coming to Marsh's bare arm, he carefully inserted it and injected him. The stimulant quickly revitalized him; he felt more alert and limber.

Tugging his coat back over his shoulder, he began following Hyram out of the tent. Carstensen went with him, nodding towards the entrance. Just as he exited the tent, he looked over his shoulder. Barlocke began to stoop over as Honeycutt approached him.

"Well, Sergeant, I think I'll be your next patient."

"Of course, Inquisitor. Salvia, ready another triage tag."

###

As the situation calmed in their bivouac, more tents were erected by Guardsmen who were not assigned perimeter watch. Watch shifts rotated so men could get out of the cold night winds. Small pits were dug inside each tent and a combination of twigs and firestarters were tossed in. With fires starting, men took turns warming their hands and leaving their charge packs by the edge of the flame. Others put a box grill over the hole and brewed recaf.

Marsh Silas found himself in the same tent as Drummer Boy and Yoxall. The former was in the corner, sitting next to his Vox-caster with the handheld up to his ear. Lying on the left side of the fire was the demolition expert. He was on top of his bedroll and was covered by a heavy wool blanket. By the triage card on his shoulder, it was clear he was already treated by another medic.

Hyram situated Marsh on the opposite side of the fire. The Lieutenant personally laid down his personal bedroll for him and covered him with the blanket he carried. No words were exchanged between the two, but the pair smiled kindly at one another.

"Anything on the Vox?" Hyram asked Drummer Boy. The Voxman just pursed his lips and shook his head.

"How's that big ol' bug bite, Yoxall?" Marsh asked, lying on his right side and pulled his coat over his chest.

"How's that little nip in your side, Marsh Silas?" the demolition expert retorted. The pair both chuckled. As Marsh began to fill his pipe, Yoxall rolled onto his back. "They wanted to send me back to camp but I just told'em to give me a stim. I ain't leaving you fellows in this fight."

"Seems I have some of the most stubborn Shock Troopers in the entire Segmentum Obscurus," Hyram remarked as he sat down in front of the fire.

"Did we lose anybody in Bloody Platoon, sir?" Marsh asked. Hyram took off his helmet and smiled softly.

"None. Thirteen wounded, including you too, but nothing serious."

"The Emperor protects," Carstensen said stoically, sitting on the opposite of the fire.

Marsh Silas agreed, but he remembered the promise Barlocke made to him. Was it just the Emperor at work or was the Inquisitor truly His servant? Perhaps, he was not just an agent of the Holy Inquisition. His appointment was divine and his power was as great as the Saints. Such a prospect delighted and terrified Marsh Silas, but he smiled to himself. The stimulant was making his mind run.

He looked around. Drummer Boy was still monitoring his handset, Yoxall was staring up at the ceiling of the tent, Hyram was warming his hands by the fire, and Carstensen was staring into the flames. Her matted orange hair was beginning to dry. Sand clung to some of her locks.

She noticed him staring and looked his way. Her green-blue eyes were vivid as they caught the tiny flame, which appeared white in her pupils. From where he lay, they appeared as mere dots.

Clearing his throat, he took the pipe from his lips.

"Beg pardon, Junior Commissar, but it appears you've lost your hat."

Carstensen blinked and her gaze softened. For a time, she looked at him. Then, she scoffed quietly and looked at the fire.

"I suppose I'll have to go and get it then," she remarked in a dry tone.

Marsh chuckled, as did Yoxall and Hyram.

Outside, they listened to the whistling wind and the distant, crashing waves. Sometimes, they heard the crunch of booted feet in the short grass outside their tent. Occasionally, voices murmured or hissed an order at his men. At one point, there was a loud scream from one of the makeshift surgery tents.

It sent chills up and down Marsh's spine. He wasn't the only one. Yoxall jumped in his bedroll, then coughed.

"Say, Marsh Silas, I've been overhearing Barlocke talking to you often. He calls you Silvanus. Why would he do that? That ain't your name."

Hiding his grin was difficult. Marsh Silas knew it was Arnold Yoxall's little way of trying to distract the others from how he flinched. For a man who was accustomed to the deafening shockwaves of high explosives and the rattle of Heavy Bolter fire, he was still easily startled by sudden noises.

Most of Bloody Platoon did not begrudge him for it. Often, they were on edge themselves and needed to react quickly to rapid changes on the battlefield. Marsh and a few others, however, enjoyed teasing him. This time, however, he decided to ignore it.

"I ain't got the slightest idea, Arnold. Guess when we was first starting to talk, I was just too plain scared to correct him. Now that we're comrades-in-arms, I'm used to it."

"High Gothic," Carstensen interrupted. "It's the High Gothic equivalent of your name. Silas Cross; Silvanus Crux."

Everyone looked at her for a few moments. She returned their gazes, ending with Marsh Silas, and then looked back into the fire. The platoon sergeant puffed on his pipe, let out a cloud of smoke, and leaned his head back.

"Well, it wouldn't feel right coming from any o' you fellows," Marsh said to his friends. Drummer Boy and Yoxall simply smirked at one another.

Frowning and shaking his head, he looked back at Carstensen. She adjusted her posture, drawing closer to the fire. The bright flames danced across her cheeks and the light emphasized her puggish nose. Her lips were slightly parted. Once he took another puff, he leaned forward and held the pipe out to her. Carstensen noticed, took it, and nodded. Pressing the neck to her lips, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

She took it from her lips, but only just. Keeping her eyes closed, she held her breath for time. Then, Carstensen opened her eyes and blew out a wavy, meandering cloud of smoke. Frowning, she repeated the process and then blew out another cloud. Once she did it a third time, she blew a perfect smoke ring up above the fire.

It quickly disappeared but Marsh Silas had never seen anyone do such a thing. He smiled wide. Carstensen noticed, although she did not smile.

"It's all about how you hold in your moth and shape your lips," she said. Carstensen smoked again and continued to blow smoke rings. Propping his head up on his hand, Marsh just watched. For a time, he watched the rings, then his gaze settled on her. After a while, he noticed how the corners of her mouth were ever so slightly tugging upwards.

He was not sure how much time passed. But as night fell, he, Hyram, and Carstensen were summoned to the command post. Before they departed, the platoon leader insisted on finding a spare coat for Marsh Silas, as a moderate section was cut away by Honeycutt to treat the wound. While Marsh donned his intact clothing, Hyram went out to find one. It was not long before he brought one in the platoon sergeant's size; luckily Walmsley Major was carrying a spare he may or may not have acquired during a resupply. This was whispered in Marsh's ear and along with Hyram, they snickered.

Now back in both his uniform and flak armour, Marsh Silas felt like a proper Guardsman again. With Hyram and Carstensen, they journeyed to the center of the bivouac. A large tent was pitched there and stood up and poles several standard feet higher than the standard length. Inside, they found the regimental command staff as well as the company command squads around a map spread across an erected collapsible table. The air was thick with lho-stick smoke and one could see the trails wafting in the lamp pack light.

Colonel Isaev was on the opposite side with Barlocke. Despite the cold, the Inquisitor lacked his overcoat, power armour, and even a shirt. Stark white bandages were wrapped all around his chest. Unlike many of the grizzled Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon, who bore shaggy chests and arms, he was devoid of any body hair.

Captain Murga was standing on the closest side of the table with his back toward the entrance. Upon hearing the flap of the tent, he turned halfway. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen saluted, which the company commander promptly returned. He nodded them over.

"The Inquisitor and the Colonel are discussing our next strategy," he whispered. "How's the wound?"

"It'll hold."

"With that codger Honeycutt's work, it surely will," Murga said, then looked forward.

"With the cover darkness, we should take the initiative _now _rather than wait," Isaev insisted, tapping the location of the cove on the map. It was circled with red field quill ink, with various notes around it accompanied by derogatory comments about the enemy. 'Cock-sucker heretics,' was written twice.

Isaev made a fist and hit the table hard. "The companies will assault in sequence, platoon by platoon, and take the outer area. Once it's secure, the regiment will mount a full frontal assault through the breach. However deep this cave goes, we shall clear it. No, _purge it _of this heretical filth."

"Purge it we must, yes indeed Colonel," Barlocke said, folding his arms across his chest. "But an attack of this nature will see us purged ourselves."

"I beg your pardon, Inquisitor?"

"Too many Guardsmen shall die in such an endeavor, Colonel," Barlocke said. "What's more, an attack on the outer grounds will alert the heretics within the cave. They'll be ready for us."

"We have the weight of numbers," Isaev insisted, "however many we lose will be inconsequential to the bodies we'll pile up. Success is assured."

"To approach a battle thinking victory is assured is for fools," Barlocke said bluntly. Colonel Isaev gritted his teeth and turned red. "I doubt not your regiment's ability to seize this objective, but I'm unwilling to commit it to a frontal attack. Casualties will be unacceptable."

Captain Giles stepped forward and nodded at the map.

"We could try drawing them out, somehow. If they were willing to pursue us onto the beach, surely they would give chase once more if we feigned assault."

Barlocke grinned and waved a finger at him.

"A much more sound strategy. But think deeper, dear Captain. We know not their total number; it could be so high as to match our own or close to it. Our deployment is limited by the terrain, as is theirs. We have the unique opportunity to utilize their ground to our advantage. Bottle them up so they are trapped within their own bastion, unable to maneuver or counterattack. Then, it will only be a matter of bayonets. To exploit this opportunity, we must eliminate the outer sentries."

Barlocke stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back.

"Colonel, I shall select a strike team to accompany me to infiltrate the enemy position and wipe out the sentries. While we do so, form the regiment into line of battle; the _sequence_ you mentioned, shall suffice. Once we have secured the pemerter, the 1333rd Regiment shall advance inside. My strike team will advance inside the cave and try to kill as many heretics without alerting the rest. When the alarm is finally raised, the regiment shall charge into the caves and snuff out what remains of this heresy on the mainland."

For a moment, Colonel Isaev seemed apprehensive. He shared a discontented glance with many of his subordinates. Then, his jaw relaxed and he stood up straight.

"Very well, Inquisitor Barlocke. Do you have a particular unit in mind for this infiltration?"

For a moment, Barlocke's eyes remained fixated on the map. One arm remained across his chest, while the other hand held his chin. He was very still. Many of the officers and their non-commissioned seconds began to exchange confused, curious glances. Some shifted on their feet, unsure of what to do with themselves. Even Marsh's breath hitched.

Slowly, the Barlocke looked up and locked eyes with Marsh Silas.

"I think Bloody Platoon shall come with me," he said.

* * *

**Word Count: **6,767

**Pages (Google Docs): **17

**Original Font: **PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

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	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

* * *

By the Emperor's blessing, it was a moonless night.

Even when the sky was cloudless and the stars burned brightly, it was difficult to see. Only when a Guardsman's eyes adjusted were they able to see the vaguest definitions of the landscape. Regiments dreaded conducting operations when there was even a slight amount of light, as there was a higher chance of being spotted by the enemy. But on overcast nights, when the moon was hidden and the purple-black sky was devoid of stars, a Guardsman's prayers were answered. While his own vision was hampered, so too was the enemy's.

Bloody Platoon advanced across the bluffs in a staggered, single-file column. Nearly five meters separated each man. Lieutenant Hyram ordered the men to turn off any running lights. Everything from helmet-mounted flashlights and flak armour glow pads to lho-sticks were extinguished. Natural vision adjustment could only let a Guardsman see so far, no more than the length of his arm. Unable to see the trooper in front or behind, they looked down and followed the trail left through the grass.

Keeping his lasgun barrel pointed down, Marsh Silas followed the crushed grass in front of him. Natural instincts urged him to look left and right to observe his surroundings. But doing so would take him off the trail.

Below the bluffs, immense waves smashed against the shore. In the complete darkness, he could see white surf and breakers. Gusts of wind buffeted him. Shivering, he tugged the chin of his tactical hood up over his nose. The hood trapped his breath and soon warmth spread across his face. Letting his M36 hang by the strap, he rubbed his gloved hands together. His fingers were starting to get numb. Once he revitalized his hands, he quickly gripped his weapon and quickly trained the barrel in a semicircle. It was pre instinct; it was pointless at night.

To walk in darkness was disorienting even to seasoned veterans. When one moved in daylight, it was a world of motion. At a sprint, surroundings became an indistinct blur. The environment receded from one's vision. Even with such disorientation, the landscape still possessed definition. In pitch black, details were obscured and the land was not receptive to a Guardsman's movements. All became still and indescribable. Were it not for the firm ground underneath Marsh Silas's feet, he would have thought he was walking in a void.

The micro-bead built into his helmet crackled.

"Halt," came Hyram's voice through the communication link, barely above a whisper. "Changing direction; shift right by five meters on my mark until I issue a stop order. On my mark...mark."

Marsh turned in place then began walking forward, taking careful, deliberate steps, until he heard Hyram utter, 'halt,' over the micro-bead once again. Facing forward once more, the Staff Sergeant and the rest of Bloody Platoon continued forward.

To walk unseen towards the enemy was paradoxically terrifying and exciting. Getting caught was a real fear and the entire plan Barlocke devised could fall to pieces, resulting in the high casualties both he and Marsh Silas wished to avoid. Yet, that same apprehension translated into an addictive, engaging thrill. Not wishing to be discovered meant Marsh was utilizing all his senses. From the taste and smell of salty seas to the stinking scrub grass, the sound of crashing waves and whistling gusts, the interchanging terrain of rock and earth beneath his boots, and the faint shape of ground before him, he could not have been more alert. It was like a game children played, with the majority hiding and one searching for them.

Although he could not see the rest of Bloody Platoon, he knew they were in front and behind him. No longer did he feel like an individual; he was a part of something bigger than himself. Each man in the platoon was no longer himself. They were the platoon, nothing more, nothing less, unified by their mission. As one, they would succeed or they would die trying, but no matter the outcome, they would fight as hard as they could for the Emperor.

It was just as Commissar Ghent said, Marsh recalled: the platoon cannot be beat.

Soon, a mysterious, pale orange glow began to appear ahead. It was off to the left and hardly visible. But as Marsh Silas and his men drew closer, the glare grew brighter and more defined. The blossoming light outlined the terrain; he could see edges of distant bluffs and cliffs. During lulls in the wind, the light would briefly dull and tendrils of smoke slithered skyward. When a gust rolled off the sea, the smoke was dissipated and the glow grew brighter, like when a man breathed gently into a fire to make the flame catch.

Instinctively, Marsh shrank to a crouch and continued to move forward. He clutched his M36 tightly, keeping his finger just above the trigger guard.

Hyram ordered another halt and shift order, this time to keep them from being caught in the ghostly, emanating light. Giving the jagged, interchanging edge of the bluffs a wide berth, Bloody Platoon continued on.

Marsh Silas knew they were very close to the cove. Galvanized yet filled with trepidation, he kept going, wishing they could act instead of prolonging the coming action. On the precipice of battle, he felt all his nerves bundling up. Veins in his temples bulged, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks grew sore, and his breathing became far more intense and quick. Just like waiting for the Chimera ramp to lower or the Valkyrie hatch to open, it was the moments preceding the engagement in which he was most scared. All he needed was the first bullet, lasbolt, or explosion, to occur, and he could focus.

Hyram's voice came through the micro-bead once more. "Bloody Platoon, halt at Rally Point A."

It was the staging area for Barlocke's proposed infiltration of the cove. Marsh Silas remembered the Inquisitor tapping the exact location on the map. According to his mysterious _asset _in the area of operations, it was a bare patch of earth withdrawn by fifty meters from the cliff.

The air remained tense as Marsh moved forward. He pressed on through the darkness, warily glancing at the orange glow on his left. When it brightened, and unable to see the ocean beyond, it seemed to him as if he was on the precipice of a crack or hole in Cadia's surface. One errant step could send him careening downwards, downwards, downwards into whatever fire was there.

When he was parallel to the glow another gust of wind blew in over the coast. It carried a variety of scents; ocean salt, dry rotting seaweed, wet sand, wood smoke, and an acrid, rotting stench. Immediately, Marsh wrinkled his nose and felt his gut curdle. It was a smell not unfamiliar to him, yet he was too preoccupied on preventing himself from gagging as well as staying in formation. As badly as he wanted to look to his left and perhaps sneak a glance into the cove, he kept his eyes forward.

As he moved slightly away from it, he noticed a strange bulk ahead of him. It only took him a moment to realize it was the forward element of Bloody Platoon gathering up.

Moving into the group, he searched for the Command Squad. He found them facing the majority of Guardsmen; Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Junior Commissar Carstensen to his right and Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Honeycutt to his left. Honeycutt had wanted to stay at the camp with two platoons from Third Company as a rearguard element. Some casualties were still awaiting evacuation and he was hesitant to leave their sides. But when Hyram told him there was going to be a chance, as there always was, another Guardsmen could be seriously wounded. Without their senior medic, what would they do? Honeycutt saw sense then and joined them.

Slightly behind the Command Squad was Barlocke, looking off at the light from the cove rising from the edge of the cliff.

One by one the squads gathered up in front of the Command Squad. When nobody else began to arrive, Hyram pointed at the men. "Squad leaders, give me a head count."

Each turned around and faced their men. In low tones, names were called out and were responded to with an, 'aye,' or, 'here.' The whispered calls and muttered responses continued for several minutes. When they ended, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Walmsley Major, and Stainthorpe turned around.

"First Squad, accounted for."

"Second Squad, accounted for."

"Third Squad, ready."

"Heavy Weapons Squads, good to go."

"Special Weapons Squad, accounted for."

Everything was still being issued through their helmet-installed or earpiece micro-beads. Standing orders during a night operation were light and noise discipline. Talking was to remain limited and hushed. In poor weather scenarios, such as rain or high winds, it would be difficult to communicate in such a way. Micro-beads circumvented both issues because a Guardsman only needed to whisper and his voice could be clearly heard by every other platoon member on the frequency.

After each of the squad leaders sounded off, Hyram nodded and twisted halfway around while still on his knee. He was attempting to look at Barlocke, still behind the Command Squad.

"Inquisitor, we're ready."

Barlocke slowly looked back and lingered where he was. With only the glow to illuminate him, it was like looking at a silhouette than an actual person. Wind rippled his trench coat and his hat trembled atop his head. Pressed to his shoulder was the butt of his foreign lasgun. His face hidden, partially from the scarf he pulled over his face.

As Marsh Silas looked at the Inquisitor, trying to and failing to make out any details of his face, he felt as though he was staring into an abyss.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" was all he said over the micro-bead.

The Inquisitor shouldered his weapon, lowered himself onto his stomach, and slithered across the smooth rock surface towards the cliff. Along with the squad leaders, Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen copied his movements. Fanning out, Marsh Silas found himself between his platoon leader and the Inquisitor. Together, the small group formed a line along the edge of the cliff.

Below, the cove was illuminated by a series of stakes driven into the sand with burning torches tied to the top. Nearly two dozen torch stakes were erected in various locations around the cove; some were placed around the water to denote its edge. In the orange light, the inlet's water appeared as black as night itself. Were it not for the wind whipping the water and white breakers crashing over the rocks, it would have appeared as a chasm, a void within a void. Wreckage from the boats and bodies, pushed by the current, littered the edge or bobbed in shallow water. Others were near the entrance to the cove itself, illuminating the grisly, bloody heap of mangled bodies. A few were near the remains of the pathetic shanties the heretics once built while others were scattered on level ground just to light the path. Some of the torches were not properly secured; the fire crept down their shaft and set the stake alight. Seven of the stakes were burning brightly. Just below them, four torches lit up the half-destroyed ramparts defending the cave's entrance. Bodies and bloody, severed limbs still littered much of the ground.

In the center, the heretics dug a deep, wide pit. An embankment of removed sand formed a ring around the pit, creating a slope. All around, the sand was churned by footprints from the earlier battle. A fire was burning in the pit, although it was unclear what was burning. Several flaming logs crossed each other at the bottom but there was a heap on top of them.

Marsh Silas set his M36 down flat on the rock, took the cord for his magnoculars from his neck and over his head, and then raised the field glasses to his eyes. Pressing a key on the left side of the scope, he magnified its vision until it zoomed close enough to make out the obscure details.

The heap on top of the fire was made up of bodies. Flames ate up their clothes and scorched their flesh away. All lay twisted with their heads at irregular angles, arms and hands raised, and fingers curled. Some were on the pile for so long the flesh was gone and only their charred, blackened bones remained. With each gust of wind, the same amalgamation of smells, including the prominent stench, struck Marsh Silas's nostrils.

He knew it smelled familiar.

Movement on the left caught his attention. He focused the magnoculars on it. A group of eight heretics, divided into four teams, approached the pit. Each pair carried a body. Treading the loose, sandy slope, they then tossed the body onto the burning heap and then walked away. Disappearing in the dark lapses between firelight and then reappearing again when they neared a torch, they returned to the cove's entrance to retrieve more corpses. Studying the location with his magnoculars, Marsh Silas could see much of the wall of corpses was removed. Many were still there, but not enough to prevent an individual from exiting or entering the cove.

"I didn't know heretics cared for their dead," Marsh Silas remarked.

"They don't," Barlocke said. "Call out the sentries."

Marsh Silas maneuvered his scope around the cove.

"Two at the entrance. Eight are moving between the entrance and the pit. We've got three at a campfire ahead of the cave entrance barricade, another two at a campfire near the destroyed shacks to our left, and there's a two man patrol at the beach."

"Are there any on the ramparts?" Barlocke asked.

"I can't see'em from this angle," Marsh said.

"Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant, take hold of me," Junior Commissar Carstensen said. She maneuvered in between them, went right up to the ledge, gripped it with her hands, and leaned over slightly. Just as she did, Marsh and Hyram gripped her by her belt with one of their hands and held the strap over the back of her coat with their other. With cautious deliberation, they eased her over the side. Almost when her entire torso was extended over the edge, she raised the back of her hand sharply, then waved it towards them. Quickly, the pair pulled her back over the side.

Carstensen took a quick breath and then held up two fingers. While Marsh, Hyram, and Barlocke watched, she moved to where Marsh was a moment ago and pointed down, then moved a few meters past Barlocke and repeated the gesture.

With a brief wave, the Inquisitor ordered them to return to Bloody Platoon. When they regrouped, Barlocke gathered up the Command Squad and the squad leaders.

"We shall rappel onto the enemy ramparts and eliminate the sentries as quietly as possible. From there, we'll clear the outer area. I'll only need one man to come with me. Volunteers?"

"Me," Marsh Silas said instantly. Everyone looked at him. Hyram leaned closer.

"Are you sure? It will be most dangerous."

Marsh smiled even though he knew the platoon leader probably could not make out his face despite how close they were. He handed his magnoculars over to him and briefly patted him on his shoulder pauldron.

"You'll watch o'er me, sir."

"Very well. Once Silvanus and I have cleared the area, Bloody Platoon shall descend in the same way we did. Once we're prepared to thrust into the cave, Drummer Boy will radio regimental command and tell them to move in. Bullard, Derryhouse?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," they answered together.

"Assist Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen with spotting targets for us. You four shall be our second eyes. If you see something we cannot, sing out."

"Yes, Inquisitor," the four replied.

"Let's get it done."

As one unit, Bloody Platoon quietly approached the edge. Everyone began to prepare. The unit carried rappelling equipment specifically for traversing mountainous terrain or urban environments. It was crucial for Cadian Shock Troops as they could be quickly deployed anywhere on the planet from an alpine climate to a besieged Kasr. Marsh Silas and Barlocke were fitted with harnesses buckled around their upper thighs, torsos, and shoulders. Once they were snug, a sturdy rope with a clip on the end was fastened to the hook on the belt. The tether was checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. Then, the remainder of the rope was uncoiled. Due to the sheer weight of their wargear, both men needed multiple belay teams; Marsh Silas had two, while Barlocke's power armor required four teams. In the end, there were not enough belay harnesses for everyone, so extra rope was tied to the tether so Guardsmen could hold on normally.

Seeing the men line up in the pale glow and taking hold of Barlocke's longer rope reminded Marsh Silas of the day when they yanked the banged up pipe from the trench wall. It brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, remembering hard work with fondness. For a brief moment, he wished they were back at Army's Meadow digging a new communication trench or reinforced an observation post. But he buried the forlorn feeling within, compartmentalizing it with his mounting fear, and concentrated on the task.

Together, he and the Inquisitor approached the locations corresponding to the sentries below them. The platoon sergeant was to the Inquisitor's left.

So focused he didn't realize Barlocke was tapping him on the shoulder until after a few knocks.

He turned to face him. Barlocke held up one of his Ripper Pistols, modified with a suppressor. The Inquisitor grinned as Marsh Silas slowly took it. "You'll need this," he said in a confident tone. Then, he held out a fabric thigh-case which held six separate slots for autopistol magazines as well as a leather holster. Marsh slid the pistol into the holster, buttoned the flap, and attached it to his cartridge belt. Taking the case, he tied it around his left thigh.

"Many thanks," he said.

Barlocke just nodded before going back to his predetermined descent point on the right. Marsh took up his position on the left.

Looking over the edge slightly, he still could not see the heretic sentry below. But he knew the foe was there; he trusted Carstensen's eyes. Hearing a rustling to his right, he watched as Bullard and Derryhouse established their overwatch position. Both went prone; the former propped up his long-las on its bipod and the spotter peered through a magnoculars set.

"Wait, Silas."

Marsh turned around to see his belay team approaching; Hyram, Carstensen, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt.

Save for the Junior Commissar, all wore anxious expressions. The platoon leader looked most worried of all. Nibbling his bottom lip, he then opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He shrugged, as if annoyed with his inability to find something useful to say.

It did not matter if he spoke or not to Marsh Silas. Knowing his commanding officer was trying to bolster his courage was enough for him. But the feeling was not just one of flattering or gratification he was being thought of. Hyram was becoming an officer he thought he could never be, one who wanted to instill bravery in his men. Even if his voice failed him, Marsh Silas knew the leader in him was taking shape. From the encouragement he gave on the battlefield to his own personal actions, the commander he wanted and Bloody Platoon needed was being born.

Marsh Silas held his arm out to the side at waist-level, raised his forearm slightly, and made a fist, just as Barlocke often did. Hyram smiled and returned the gesture, as did all of the troopers in front of him. Then, the platoon leader held out his hand and Marsh Silas clasped it. Carstensen reached over and rested her hand on top of theirs, her fingers on Marsh's wrists. Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt's hands joined theirs as well.

Carstensen bowed her head and closed her eyes. A gust of wind rolled over them, brushing her orange locks across her forehead. Just moments before, her face was tightly focused; her gaze was firm and menacing, her jaw was locked, and she looked around constantly. Now, her expression was so peaceful she looked as though she was asleep while still on her feet.

Oddly, the breeze which lingered over them did not stink this time to Marsh Silas.

"May the Emperor guide and protect this faithful servant," she said in a stoic voice, "for he goes to depths unknown for the Imperium."

She looked up and her gaze met the platoon sergeant's. "Go with the Emperor, Staff Sergeant."

"The Emperor protects," Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt said in unison.

Marsh Silas nodded and turned back around. He walked up to the edge, so close the tips of his boots were over it. Taking a heavy breath, he looked over at Barlocke. The Inquisitor had taken off his hat and the wind whipped his crop of dark hair.

Looking over at Marsh Silas, the Inquisitor smiled and nodded.

"Silvanus and Barlocke."

"Barlocke and Silvanus."

"Together, let us go."

Marsh Silas held his arms out and stepped over the edge. Immediately, he felt his harness grow more snug as the belay team eased him over. Now horizontal with the face of the cliff, he found himself staring downwards at the ramparts. Already, he could see the sentry below him, looking out towards the sea. It was at least a twenty meter drop to the barricade.

He looked over at Barlocke. The overhang from the cliff provided a long shadow over its face, so the Inquisitor was nearly hidden. But he was able to see Barlocke point downwards with the side of his hand. Together, they each tugged on the rope to signal their belay teams, and then pushed off the rock. In a quick but controlled manner, they each descended by about three meters before their boots met the cliff face again. After taking a few more steps, they repeated the maneuver, covering another three meters, walking another, and then pushed off again.

The wind was still howling and was growing stronger, masking the sound of the rope as it let out. Although uneven, the cliff face was mostly smooth and their boots did not kick off any shards of stone.

Marsh controlled his breath, kept one hand on his harness, and the other extended outwards to the side. He drew nearer to the heretic below him who remained unaware of his presence. As he did, his heart beat faster and louder, so loud he was quite certain the heretic would hear it.

Barlocke's voice came into his mind, cool and clear.

_Knives out, Silvanus. Make sure the heretic does not scream. _

Marsh Silas reached down and slowly slid his trench knife from its scabbard. Gripping it tightly, he continued walking until the cliff face ended where the mouth of the cave began. The top of the ramparts, and the heretic, were less than two meters below him.

In tandem with Barlocke, he tugged on his rope to order the belay team to lower him down. As his feet just left the rock face, he was slowly lowered downward. With his left hand ready to grab heretic's face and the other clutching his knife, he came closer and closer. He could almost touch his canvas sack hood.

_Now!_

Clamping his gloved hand over the heretic's mouth, Marsh Silas sank the knife into the enemy's throat. With all his might, he dragged the blade across its neck. As he did, the writhing heretic gurgled into his palm and clawed at his hand. By the time it was the blade was nearly on the other side of his neck, the heretic's arms went limp. Retracting the blade, Marsh pushed the twitching heretic downwards. Then, he quickly undid the clip and dropped into a crouched position.

Drawing the Ripper Pistol, he quickly swiveled to his right. Barlocke's heretic dropped dead and the Inquisitor detached from his rope. Gracefully landing on his feet, he then slid into cover behind the sandbags lining the ramparts. Marsh did the same.

"Infiltration team is in," Barlocke declared over the micro-bead. "Bullard, have any of the sentries taken notice?"

A tense minute passed.

"No, sir."

Marsh Silas sighed in relief. Barlocke lowered his finger from his micro-bead and pointed at Marsh Silas.

_Come to me._

Peering over the sandbags before he did, Marsh Silas scrambled over the breach in the ramparts and slid next to Barlocke.

"Can you _believe _we did that?" Marsh hissed in disbelief, grinning.

"I certainly can," Barlocke said with a smirk, then his expression grew serious. "Focus, man. We'll start with the patrol; the others are in areas too well-lit. Stay in darkness, avoid the light; if you must enter it, do your killing quickly."

Barlocke and Marsh Silas moved to the end of the barricade and quickly darted down the steps. Soon, they were covered in shadows. Moving slowly at a half-crouch, they approached the meandering patrol.

His heart still racing, Marsh Silas was utterly terrified and elated. The contest was still on; infiltrate the objective undetected. So far, they succeeded but one error could disrupt their operation. But he was focused now; he moved just as Barlocke did.

The patrol was walking along the water's edge, their backs to the pair.

_Take the one on the left. Use your pistol; feather the trigger once, lest you spray him with bullets. Catch the bodies so they don't fall in the water._

Marsh had instinctively taken his M36 from his shoulder when they descended from the barricade. Slinging over his shoulder, he unbuttoned the holster, and drew the Ripper Pistol. Coming up behind the heretics, who were now ankle deep in the surf, Marsh aimed the suppressed pistol at the back of his target's head. The barrel was nearly touching the heretic.

_On my mark...mark!_

He squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the heretic's head with a wet, fleshy _thunk. _The hood became soaked with dark red blood. Simultaneously, Marsh grabbed the strap of the vest the heretic wore and yanked the heavy body backwards onto the sand.

Barlocke put a round into each one to ensure each was dead.

_Good. Let's move towards the entrance, hugging the lagoon. _

Marsh let the Inquisitor take the lead. Avoiding the torches bordering the water, they crept along, being sure to keep from stepping into the water. It was slow going; each time the teams carrying the bodies neared the pit, Bullard warned them, and the pair stopped until the heretics left to retrieve more corpses.

Moving around the pit and staying and darkness, they pushed all the way to the high, rocky border that protected the cove. Once there, they began creeping towards the entrance. Marsh Silas switched hands, holding the Ripper Pistol in his left hand and gripping Barlocke's left shoulder with his free hand.

When Barlocke crouched, he did too, keeping his hand there.

_Wait until the others leave, then you take the far one. _

The heretics dumped the corpses into the pit and then came back for more. After they silently gathered up more dead and departed, Marsh Silas broke from Barlocke and began to approach. As he did, he heard the suppressor of Barlocke's pistol cough. At the same moment, the heretic nearest to them fell. Stepping by him, he raised the pistol, aimed for the heretic's head, and squeezed the trigger briefly. The body crumpled to the ground.

Marsh crouched and turned around, raising his pistol towards the eight-man party. They were in the process of dropping more bodies into the pit.

_How shall we deal with them? _

Barlocke's reply was preceded by a chuckle.

_With ease. _

The Inquisitor ordered Marsh to join him back in their original position. Receding into the shadow of the rock wall, they crouched down and waited. The eight heretics turned around and began to return. When they did, the platoon sergeant felt afraid. He would not be able to aim and fire fast enough to kill them before at least one raised the alarm. A round that did not kill one instantly would wound him, resulting in a cry of pain.

Keeping the Ripper Pistol raised, he waited. They approached, none the wiser to their dead comrades. Then, when they were almost to the pile of bodies, they stopped. All eight seemed to tremble where they stood. A few began to gurgle or make very slight, distressed noises. Just as suddenly, they dropped to the ground. Barlocke got up and Marsh looked at him. For a moment, he saw Barlocke's seemed to be glowing a rich, golden color. When he blinked, the light was gone.

Joining the Inquisitor, he stood over the eight heretics. All were writhing and clutching their hooded heads. Others' fingers dug into the sand and their legs slowly moved back and forth. Some were frothing at the mouth so much it came out of the slits of their hoods.

Casually aiming his Ripper Pistol, Barlocke shot each one through the head. When he was done, he pointed to the pair at the far campfire.

_Take those ones. I'll take the three in front of the barricade. _

Marsh Silas nodded. While Barlocke disappeared into the darkness, Marsh Silas darted off past the entrance. Hugging the rock wall, he followed it all the way to the bottom of the bluffs which overlooked the cove. Changing direction, he moved along back towards the cave entrance, keeping the two heretics at their fire in sight. Although he moved swift he made sure not to step on any of the sheet metal or wooden planks littering the path. Giving the torchlight wide berths, he eventually came to the edge of the darkness near the enemy camp.

One of the heretics was sitting with his back to him. The other was across the fire, looking his way. The fire was dim and its light barely extended a meter. Marsh aimed carefully, lining the sights on the head of the farthest heretic. Using both hands to steady the pistol, he squeezed the trigger. The round struck him right in the head and sent him toppling backwards off the crate he was sitting on. Before the other could react, Marsh lowered the pistol with one hand and shot him three times, twice in the back and once in the head.

Turning, he looked at the final sentries. His heart froze. All three rose to their feet and drew their weapons. Then, the one on the left fell followed by the one on the right. Just as the heretic in the center turned, a pair of hands reached out of the darkness and drew him out of the firelight. Moments later, Inquisitor Barlocke walked out.

"Clear," he said over the micro-bead.

"Clear," Marsh echoed. "Bloody Platoon, outer area secure. Move in."

While Barlocke and Marsh Silas moved back to the ramparts and covered the entrance, Bloody Platoon joined them. Instead of rappelling, they secured several lines with stakes and fast-roped down onto the barricade. The Heavy Weapons and Special Weapons Squads lowered their crew-served armaments by rope before joining the others. Before long, the entire unit was in the cove.

Drummer Boy made his call to the regiment. After he did, Barlocke rallied the squad leaders.

"We know not what waits for us," he said. "It is best if we stagger our entries by squad. The lead squad can then ascertain what is ahead and call up reinforcements quickly or order a retreat."

"Agreed," said Lieutenant Hyram. "Two minutes between entries shall be enough. The Command Squad shall go first."

Marsh Silas saw Barlocke look at Hyram with a surprised, amused smile.

"Are you certain, dear Hyram?"

"Who better to make a tactical decision than the platoon leader?" Hyram responded after a moment. Marsh Silas could only chuckle.

Forming a line, with Marsh and Barlocke in the center, they looked into the cave. Beyond a few more sandbag walls, sharpened stake barriers, supply crates, and torches mounted on the sides, they could not see very far. No sounds came from within nor were there any shadows on the walls they could see.

Hyram raised his hand and then pointed into the cave. In one motion, the Command Squad entered. Maneuvering between the barricades with their weapons raised, they stepped quickly and quickly. Their upper bodies were still, keeping their weapons ready, while their legs remained in motion. After passing the defenses, the cave was barren for several meters until they came to a bend. Bearing right, they followed the torches through the cavern. Overhead, drops of water fell from the tips of stalactites. Moaning wind followed them, winding its way through the passage. Outside, they could hear ocean waves pounding on the shore; each shock reverberated in the cave.

The cave began to grow colder. Moisture on the walls glistened in the dull orange torchlight. Again, the group came to a bend that twisted to the left. Carstensen was on point and she slowed down at the corner. She peered around and then jerked back quickly. Turning around, he held up one finger.

She turned to Marsh, who was standing beside her. With her finger, she ordered him to turn around. Although confused, he obeyed. He felt her hands feeling his rucksack, then she pulled a strap, and pulled his entrenchment tool out.

Marsh turned around to see her holding it like a club. After checking to make sure the sharpened end was facing forward, she turned to the platoon sergeant. She held up three fingers, then lowered them one by one. Making a fist, she darted around the corner. Right behind her, Marsh watched as she took a heretic by his shoulder and brought the sharpened edge of the shovel down atop his head.

As the body sank to its knees, she extricated the shovel from its skull after a few tugs. Looking around, she made sure it was clear, then nodded at Marsh Silas. In turn, he backed up a few steps and motioned for the others to follow. By this time, First Squad caught up and Second Squad was approaching.

The next chamber was very large and open. Everywhere, there were mats on the floor, caches of supply crates, empty weapon wracks, boxes of ammunition, piles of clothing, food waste, refuse, and excrement. Autogun oil and bodily fluids made a sickening smell and once more Marsh felt himself struggling to control his gag reflex. A few of the others, like Drummer Boy and Hyram, also resisted. Carstensen, Babcock, Honeycutt, and Barlocke seemed fine.

What was more unnerving about the chamber was its utter emptiness. Besides the single heretic guard, there was no one else. Slowing down, they progressed through the chamber and took time to search around the crates. Bloody Platoon was swiftly regrouping and by the time the chamber was checked, the entire unit was gathered up. With the Command Squad still leading the way, they went into the next passage.

This one proved to be shorter. At the next bend, there was firelight around the corner. This time, Babcock and Honeycutt took the lead. While the flag bearer drew his deactivated power sword, the senior medic took out his trench knife. Marsh followed closely behind them. After Honeycutt checked around the corner, he held up two fingers and indicated he was going left. After a mouthed count, the two rushed around the corner. When Marsh came around, he saw Honeycutt opening a heretic's throat. Babcock was pushing the other off the long blade of his sword.

Marsh took point and led Bloody Platoon through a tight passage. When he emerged, he was so shocked he stopped. In front of him was another chamber; although larger, it was not as big as the previous one. Assorted just like the first, with a combination of supplies and sleeping areas, this one was filled with heretics. All were lying on mats or on crates, sleeping. Turning around, he signaled to Hyram, Barlocke, and Carstensen they were dealing with a large number of enemies and to tread lightly.

Bloody Platoon slowly infiltrated the chamber. Once they were assembled, they assembled in line formation two ranks deep. Through hand signals, orders were given to hold fire and use bayonets and knives to kill as many silently as they could. As quietly as possible, they advanced into the chamber. Marsh Silas found himself on the far right, holding his knife in his left hand and Ripper Pistol in his right. As he approached the nearest heretic, he prepared to plunge his blade into its throat.

But then, something stirred beside him. He stopped and turned quickly with his pistol. He found himself face to face with a heretic who just rose from their sleeping made. Still bent over, the hooded heretic stared up at him. Marsh Silas, and his comrades behind him, looking back at the heretic.

Marsh Silas grinned.

"Emperor's blessings," he said, then pointed the pistol at the enemy's face, "_heretic._"

He pulled the trigger and shot the heretic through the head. Despite being suppressed, other enemies were woken by the bullet's impact and the body falling over.

"Open fire!"

"For the Emperor!" Bloody Platoon screamed.

Marsh dropped to his knee, grabbed his M36, and began firing as fast as he could. Lasbolts flew over his head, cutting heretics in two or blowing off their arms, heads, and legs. Many were killed before they could grab their weapons or get up from their sleep mats. So great was their flurry they were tripping and falling over both the living and the dead.

"Advaaance!"

Ejecting the charge pack and stuffing into his pocket, he slid a fresh one in and resumed firing. Over bodies and limbs they marched, shooting heretics attempted to mount a defense and bayoneting any who were still alive. A few managed to pick up their second-rate autoguns and fired back. Most of their rounds struck the Shock Troopers in their flak armour. Others were hit in the arm or leg, and were recovered by their field chirurgeons. Some heretics did not even try to fight back and began falling back towards the opposite end of the cavern. In a matter of minutes, the floor of the cave was covered with dead bodies. So many were laying tightly together they created a second floor.

Marching and shooting over the bodies, Bloody Platoon neared the end of the cavern. A small passage was the heretics' only escape. So many struggled to get through they were stuck. The Cadians closed in, shooting and bayoneting. Clearing the entrance to the final passage, Marsh Silas was about to charge in when he was greeted with a truly, unimaginable horrible smell. It was a stench concocted from vomit and feces, burned and decaying flesh, pus, and infected wounds.

So overpowering was the scent he had to pull his tactical hood down, keel over, and vomit. Many others, including Carstensen and Babcock, did as well. Some were so nauseated they could not stand and fell into the arms of their comrades.

Before any of them could question the smell, they heard a slick, slithering sound. Looking down the passage, Marsh Silas saw a large shadow in the torchlight. As the moist noise grew louder the stench became even more unbearable.

Suddenly, something came around the corner at the end of the tunnel. It was a huge, blob like mass. Two massive, sinewy arms covered in open sores and slick with pus, reached out and pulled the object closer. On its flabby back, half a dozen tentacles swept back and forth, gripping the sides of the tunnel with their opening, sucking, mouths. Warts and white pimples covered its rolls of fat; with each movement, they burst. Putrid, black blood and green-white pus flowed down its pale orange skin. The creature did not have so much a head as it did a huge face on the front of the slug-shaped blob. Jagged white teeth lined the lips of its massive maw. Gobs of saliva leaked from the corners and wet mucus slid from its nose. Two sunken, black eye sockets contained a pair of happy, yellow eyeballs.

Marsh Silas, eyes wide, mouth open, and legs trembling, met its gaze. The monster stopped. Its demented mouth formed into a wide smile, a long, thick wart-covered tongue flopped out, and a deep, slow laugh rose from its belly.

"Daemon!" Marsh screamed as the beast lurched towards him.

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**Word Count: **6,800

**Pages (Google Docs): **16

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	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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Marsh was only able to squeeze off several shots at the slithering, lumbering, encroaching monster before he turned on his heel and bolted backwards. In front of him and on either side, Cadian Shock Troopers were running with him. Some swiveled around, firing their lasguns several times before facing forward again. Other carried comrades who were unconscious, wounded, or simply too crippled by nausea to move. Everyone was screaming; it was a cacophony of ignored orders, terrified shrieks, and hurried prayers to the Emperor for protection. Lieutenant Hyram tried to rally the men, holding Babcock by his webbing and ordering the flag bearer to wave the standard. Instead, both men were caught in the wave of fleeing men and dragged with them. Squad leaders attempted to stop their Guardsmen individually, but when that failed, they did their best to form a dam to stop them. Yet, the Cadians broke through. Even though it was futile, the sergeants did their best to halt the men and encourage them to fight. Some of their troopers grabbed them by their rucksacks, cartridge belts, or webbing, and pulled them along, unwilling to leave them behind.

Barlocke too was caught in the motion of the crowd. He was further ahead than Marsh Silas, who was in the last ranks of the retreating Shock Troopers. Time after time, the Inquisitor attempted to stop and calm the men, but his voice was drowned out by their terrified cries and stampeding feet. Eventually, he just began to wave at Marsh Silas. Although the platoon sergeant could see his friend's lips moving, he could not make out any of his words over the commotion. Try as he might, Marsh Silas was not able to push through his men to get to Barlocke. It was just him, some of the troopers falling behind, and Junior Commissar Carstensen.

A few paces ahead of him, she stopped more than others, calling on them to stand fast and form a firing. Nobody seemed to listen, ignoring even her glistening power fist and Bolt Pistol. Rather than grab anyone by their flak armour's collar or execute one of the men, she finally planted her feet on the ground. Until he noticed she was absent from his peripheral vision, Marsh Silas did not stop. When he did, he was both awed and horrified to see the crimson uniformed officer standing in the wake of Bloody Platoon. As her power fist coursed with light blue energy and her Bolt Pistol raised, she fired at the mammoth Warp-creature. Slowly, belching deep, noxious laughter, it drew closer. Its massive, thick fingers, oily and covered in warts, dug into the cavern floor. Groaning with effort, it dragged itself closer, its slug-like body squishing and wiggling behind it. A trail of pus, blood, and oil oozed from under its tail.

He looked ahead. Although the sickening spawn behind them was slow, Bloody Platoon ran as fast they could. Flooding back towards the entrance to the chamber, they tripped and stumbled over the floor of heretical corpses. When they came to the opening, a crowd of pushing, shoving Guardsmen became choked at its front. Only a small number could slip through at a time, with the troops in front pulling them through and the ones behind them shoving them forward.

Looking back at Carstensen, he saw her fire at the monster. Bolt shells struck its greasy bulk. Although flesh was blown and ripped away, and the beast cried out in confused pain, it came on. Carstensen was steadfast, emptying the magazine of her weapon and reloading quickly. Even as the beast came closer, its huge frame beginning to dwarf her, she refused to give ground. Standing firm, she continued to fire.

Marsh Silas wanted to run away. Nearly being killed by the daemonette was still a fresh, terrifying memory. Yet this daemon was far more horrifying and its stench made it seem like he was breathing in poison gas. All he wanted to do was follow his men out of the cave and run far, far. Yet, he saw Carstensen standing alone; in turns his heart swelled with admiration and sank with shame. He was running while she remained to cover their retreat.

His legs grew still and he planted his feet into the rock floor. Gritting his teeth, he turned around, raised his M36, and squeezed the trigger. A barrage of red lasbolts flew over Carstensen's head and raked the side of the strange, quivering, sliding beast. It unleashed a confused roar as the laser burned and tore away chunks of its flesh.

Marsh Silas began grabbing Guardsmen and turning them around. Some who were too focused on trying to force their way through their forward comrades bucked his hand with their shoulders, so he began snatching their webbing and tearing them backwards. He pulled some of them so hard they fell to the ground and rolled over. As these stumbling, confused men tried to find their footing, Marsh Silas stood among them and raised his voice.

"Call yourself Cadians!?" he cried. "I thought I served alongside men, beside Shock Troopers who have faced Greenskins to Traitors and fought as hard as they ever could! Get up, you gunmen, get up and like Cadians! Stand and fight!"

One by one, troopers like Derryhouse and Effelmen, Monty Peck, Logue, and Hitch, rose to their feet, raised their weapons, and began firing at the monster. The combined impact of laser and plasma fire began to slow it down. Marsh Silas turned back after swapping charge packs again and pulled more men from the crowd. Clutching Queshire by the collar of his flak armour, he jerked him back. "Remember you're a squad leader!" Marsh Silas screamed in his face, poking him hard in the shoulder. "Rally your men and fight!"

As if awakened from a stupor, Queshire whirled around and began helping Marsh pull more Guardsmen back. In the fray, Marsh found himself face to face with Yoxall, who was trying to force his way back towards him. Upon seeing him, the platoon sergeant let his lasgun hang by the strap, grabbed Yoxall's webbing with both hands, and tugged him back. Helping him turn to face the beast, Marsh took his own weapon back in hand and began firing. Leveling his Meltagun, Yoxall unleashed a long beam of golden energy. In the damp cave, the moisture in the air sizzled. When the beam met the flesh of the behemoth, it howled in agony as it blasted away swathes of its flesh.

The beam traveled along its torso, leaving wakes of charcoal blackened meat. Some which was not immediately charred melted into liquid, oozing down its side before coagulating near its underbelly. Its tentacles swirled, tightened, slackened, and flailed. Raising its arms, it brought it down like a hammer. A few of the Guardsmen narrowly avoided the blow.

Junior Commissar Carstensen remained fixated to her spot, as if it was hallowed ground. Marsh went forward, letting his lasgun hang by the strap, and ran up to her. Taking her by the forearm, he began leading her backwards as she continued to fire. Taking out the Ripper Pistol from his holster with his other hand, he also continued to shoot at the monstrosity. Bullets thudded into its rotund stomach and black blood dribbled out.

It raised its huge arm again, curled its fat fingers into a fist, and brought it down fast. Before Marsh could react, Carstensen freed her arm from his grasp, shoved him back, and then rolled to the opposite side. With a massive crash, the fist fell on the rock flooring. Cracks shot out through the stone from where it landed.

Having landed hard on his wounded side, Marsh clutched it, clenched his teeth, and groaned. Such a shock sent waves of pain reberating throughout his middle, forcing his stomach to knot, and making him feel as if he would vomit. Still, he managed to get back on his feet. Just as he did, he saw the monster turning to face some of his comrades. Although it was preoccupied with his men, its tentacles were not. One snapped towards Marsh and shot forward, its tiny, toothed maw opening wide. Before he could raise his M36, Carstensen appeared in front of him, charged her power fist, and swung. It connected with the side of the tentacle, knocking it away. When the appendage attempted to withdraw, she shoved the barrel of her Bolt Pistol into its mouth and squeezed the trigger. As the head of the tentacle exploded, she covered her face with her power fist. Bits of flesh and blood flew everywhere.

Another tentacle shot out. She raised her pistol to shoot at it, but the fast-moved limb knocked the weapon away. When she reared her arm back to strike with her power fist, it latched onto the metal knuckles. Trying to pull it out did not work. Inch by inch, the tentacle sucked and began climbing up her hand.

Marsh pulled his power sword from the sheath, activated it, and charged. Raising it above his head, he brought it down beyond the tentacle's head, cutting it off from the rest of the body. Devoid of its head, the rest of the tendril rose into the air and began flailing wildly. Blood oozed and flew from the wound.

Despite losing its body, the head continued to grip. Yanking his trench knife from his boot-mounted scabbard, Marsh took Carstensen's arm to steady it, jammed the blade under the top lip of the maw, and shoved as hard as he could. Reaching over with her other hand, Carstensen placed it atop his and added her weight. After a moment, they managed to pry it. When it dropped to the ground it began to flop and bounce around. Enraged, Carstensen bellowed, raised her booted foot, and squashed it. Saliva dripped from the knuckles of her power fist.

"Get back into the fight! Fight, damn ye! You are Cadians, prove it to the Emperor of Mankind! What would He make of you, turning tail and running!?"

Marsh and Carstensen looked back. Forcing his way through Bloody Platoon was Hyram. Holding his M36 by its body in his left hand, he drew his power sword with his right and held it into the air as high as he could. Pressing the switch at the base of the hilt, it began to coarse with deep blue energy. In the dim light of the cave, it cast him in an eerie aura. "Rally to me, Bloody Platoon, fight with me!"

Many stopped, gazed at their platoon leader in awe, and then returned to the firing line. Men crouched down, took aim with their M36 lasguns, and began firing at the monster. Hyram ordered Babcock to stand in the center of the line and hold the standard.

"Do not give into fear! Do not give into doubt! Do not give into fear! Do not give into doubt!" he yelled repeatedly.

"The Emperor is with us, men!" Carstensen called. "He is with us, He is with us! Fight on!"

Bloody Platoon picked up their chanting.

"He is with us, He is with us, He is with us!"

"No fear! No doubt! No fear! No doubt! No fear! No doubt!"

Bursting from the clout of returning, shooting Guardsmen came Barlocke. With an expression of anger, he surged forward with his lasgun raised. He adjusted the charge settings on his weapon and fired. A large golden laser blat erupted from the barrel and struck the beast's fast, shearing part of it away. After hitting it with three more shots, he discarded his weapon, and drew his Ripper Pistol. Running as fast as he could, he circled around the daemon, firing he went. Armor-piercing rounds sank into its flesh but the poison within, which laced out and exposed its many veins, did not seem to deter it.

Marsh and Carstensen fell back slowly and continued to fire. Rejoining Hyram on his firing line, they shot over the heads of their spread out comrades in front. Although it swept its tail and swung with its fist, the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon were quick on their feet and nimbly dodge the blows. When one of the tentacles descended, trying to latch onto a face, arm, or weapon, they fended them off with bayonets and knives. One by one the tentacles' heads were severed and destroyed. Moaning and groaning, the monster continued to fight, snatch one of the men with its fist, or crush them beneath it.

"Keep up the fire!" Hyram shouted. "Keep it up, you men! Let'em have it!"

"Pour it on, pour it on!" Marsh added.

He saw Hyram turned around. The platoon leader rallied more men who previously squeezed through the entrance, ordering or pulling them back into the fray. Then, the Lieutenant saw the grenadier, Fleming, and ordered him up front.

Hyram waved his hand at the Guardsmen in front.

"Rally to the standard, rally to the standard!"

Slowly, the men pulled back, either individually or in small groups. Everyone was still shooting at the beast. It was riddled with slugs, scorch marks, laser burns, and tracks of melted flesh. Smoke rose from the singed meat and blood flooded from its many wounds. Although it still fought on, its speed was slower and it was losing strength, like a blooded animal surrounded by predators.

Once everyone returned to the standard, forming a line, Hyram brought up Fleming. "Fire your weapon!" he ordered.

Fleming lifted his grenade launcher and squeezed the trigger. The explosive shell struck the monster center mass, blowing a chunk of its chest off. Blood, flesh, and stone dust flew everywhere.

Hyram lined up all three grenadiers, including Fleming. "Hit it again and don't stop firing until you're out of ammunition!" he screamed at them.

Together, all three began blasting away at the monster. Shell after shell struck the monster, tearing away chunks of its body and peppering it with shrapnel. Grunting loudly, it tried to slither away, but Bloody Platoon kept firing. Every single Guardsman who had not yet returned to the fight was now present. Red, blue, and golden lasbolts continued to strike its flesh while white-blue plasma tore into it. A grenade struck its right elbow and smashed the entire arm, causing it to go limp. Another grenade landed at its left shoulder and tore the arm completely off. With so much of its flesh tore away that exposed its blackened, sickly innards and bones, the monster let out a fire roar before falling over to the side. Even as it lay there, Bloody Platoon continued to fire into it.

Hyram eventually put himself in front of the men, waving both arms. "Cease firing, cease firing!"

Their M36 barrels fell silent. When the stone dust cleared, the daemon was still. All that could be heard was the heated, rapid breathing of Bloody Platoon. Some rose from their crouched posture but continued to keep their weapons raised.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Hyram began to venture forth. Marsh went over and stopped him.

"Let me check, sir."

"No, I will."

"But-"

"But nothing," Hyram whispered resolutely, "I'm your commanding officer, I'll go."

Marsh frowned.

"Let's go together."

Hyram hesitated for a moment. Their violet eyes met and gazed into each other briefly before the platoon leader sighed.

"Let us go, then."

Raising their weapons, they slowly approached the dead monster. It stunk horribly, worse than it did when it was still alive. Pus continues to ooze from so many open wounds, sores, and large pimples. So much black blood was leaking from its wounds that it was starting to create a dark pool around the corpse. Approaching the midsection, they exchanged one glance, nodded, and slowly slid their bayonets into its fleshy flank. It did not move and when they removed them, an even greater stink came out of the two slits. Both men gagged and took a few steps back. Putrid flesh hung on the tips of their bayonets, soaked in the grisly, unnatural blood.

Turning away, they shared a smile.

"The business is done," Marsh sighed, taking his canteen. He unscrewed the cap and turned it over, allowing the water to run down the blade. It took nearly half the contents to wash away all the daemon's flesh and blood. When he finished, he handed it over to Hyram who offered a thankful nod before doing the same.

"Thank the Emperor it is done."

"By his grace, sir, we survive."

Hyram handed his canteen back. Smiling, Marsh took it and stuffed it back into the pouch on the rear of his cartridge belt. Looking back up, he saw a paralyzed look on the platoon leader's face. Marsh blinked. "Sir? Are you well, sir?"

Before he could answer, Marsh followed his gaze and looked over his shoulder. Looking down the side of the monster, he saw its tail. It was twitching. He looked up; even without their heads, the tentacles were quivering. Marsh's eyes widened.

Turning around, he shoved Hyram away. Before he could dash away himself, one of the thick tentacles curled around him and lifted him up. With a happy, demented roar, the gigantic creature lifted him up and dangled him in front of its mangled, bleeding face. Its noxious breath rose up in a poxy, green cloud and Marsh could not help but vomit again. Yellow bile dribbled from his lips and he coughed. Nearly fainting from the stench, he looked down at it through half-open eyes. It flashed a huge, toothy grin as it laughed, deep and slow. With his arms clamped by his sides, Marsh Silas attempted to wriggle free.

Looking down, he saw members of Bloody Platoon scrambling to get him down. Others were firing their weapons at the beast's flank. Some charged and jammed their bayonets into its fleshy side. Roaring, it swung its tail but the men dove or leapt away in time. Before they could back up, its injured tentacles lowered down and snatched two more, Yoxall and Walmsley Minor.

As the others were brought alongside him, Marsh felt the tentacle tighten around him. Struggling to breath, he looked between his comrades. Yoxall's arms were trapped like his, but Walmsley Minor's left arm was free. The assistant gunner raised his leg as high as he could, reached down, and yanked his trench knife from his boot-mounted scabbard. He brought the blade down into the tentacle half a dozen times until the wailing monster's grip loosened. A triumphant look on Walmsley Minor's face quickly disappeared as he began to fall. But Marsh swung his leg out and his friend caught his foot. With much difficulty, Walmsley Minor began to climb up Marsh's leg, then webbing, and eventually threw himself over the tentacle. The appendage shook, like a flea-ridden hound attempting to shake off the parasites. Walmsley Minor nearly fell, but managed to shift his weight towards Marsh and take hold of his bandoleer. With the weight of two men on it, the tentacle was lower to the ground and struggling to maintain its height. Still, it was too high to jump without fracturing a bone.

"Free me, and then we'll get Yoxall!" Marsh ordered.

Positioning himself as best he could, Walmsley Minor raised the knife and began jabbing the tentacle. Soon enough, it too loosened. Just as Marsh was about to fall, the assistant gunner sank his blade into the flesh of the tendril and clutched the platoon sergeant's chest rigging. In the same instant, Marsh Silas reached out and grabbed the back of Walmsley's Minor cartridge belt.

The tentacles swayed and lurched. Biding his time, Marsh waited for their tentacle, now dangerously drooping closer to the ground, to get near Yoxall's. When they came close enough, he reached out and caught the demolition expert's leg. As he clung on for dear life, Walmsley Minor let go of his bandoleer, reached out, and wrapped his arm around the tentacle. Withdrawing his blade from the previous tentacle, he drove it into the one constraining Yoxall. The other swung away, leaving the three men clinging to Yoxall's. Unable to bear the weight of three armoured, well-built Cadians, the tentacle descended.

Looking down, Marsh Silas saw Barlocke, Walmsley Major, and Hyram drop their weapons and run towards them. Each one raised their arms, attempting to catch them and pull them down. Just before they came within reach, the tentacle shook and flailed. Wide-eyed and screaming, the three Cadians hung on tightly as they were flung through the air. The daemon was whirling around, trying to use its tail to crush members of Bloody Platoon closing in to bayonet range. Many rolled or jumped away from it, having learned the beast's patterns. When it attempted to sweep them off their feet, they nimbly jumped over it. Even when bleeding profusely and having chunks of its flesh blown away by grenades, the monster continued to thrash.

When it finally ceased, Bloody Platoon closed in and bayoneted its flank again. Others continued to harass it with lasgun fire. Grenadiers held their fire for fear of hitting the three Guardsmen still gripping the tentacle.

Once again, it was unable to sustain their combined weight and began to descend. Looking down, Marsh saw more of their comrades gathering below them. By this point, Marsh's strength was fleeting and it was becoming difficult to hold on. But he gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, and called on the Emperor to give him strength. Just then, he felt fingers wrapping around his boots, then his ankles, and finally his shins.

"One, two, three, pull!" he heard Hyram yell. He felt nearly half a dozen hands tug on his legs, forcing the tentacle even lower.

"Let go now!"

Marsh did so and found himself guided down by so many hands. Looking up, he saw Walmsley Minor viciously cutting at the tentacle until its grip finally released Yoxall. A gasp went out from the Guardsmen beneath him but they managed to catch him. Walmsley Minor let go of his knife and fell into a third group beneath him.

In the confusion of grabbing hands and Guardsmen quickly departing to rejoin the fight, the first face he could make out was Barlocke's. In a moment lasting mere seconds although it felt like an hour, Marsh found himself staring into the Inquisitor's dark eyes. Briefly, Barlocke reached down, cupped Marsh's cheek, and nodded. All the platoon sergeant could do was nod back. As soon as he did, his friend reached down, grabbed his bandoleer, and pulled him onto his feet. Someone else handed him his lasgun and Marsh began firing.

He did not fire for long. The beast stopped flailing its tails and its tentacles, now ravaged more than before by accurate lasbolts, stopped its erratic movements. Sliding towards a small group of Guardsmen, it seemed to shrink back into itself somewhat, then sprung forward off the ground. Before it came down, the Guardsmen quickly dispersed. Laughing hoarsely, it slammed down on the stone floor, sending a revelation throughout the cavern and up into Marsh's legs. The shock seemed to travel and shake all the way up to his teeth.

As it struggled back to an upright position, its voluminous stomach jiggling, Marsh Silas looked at Barlocke. The Inquisitor dropped his weapon, drew his power sword, and activated its source. Deep blue energy enveloped the blade.

"Silvanus! Draw its attention away from the men!" the Inquisitor.

Invigorated, the platoon sergeant sprinted up to the monster and began shooting at its face. Red lasbolts blasted away chunks of its acne-covered cheeks. In pain, the beast roared and turned away. Running parallel to it, Marsh kept firing until he turned it away from the majority of Bloody Platoon. Alone, he stared up into its drooping, dribbling eyes. Dumping his spent charge pack, he loaded his last one into the M36 and took aim.

Before he squeezed the trigger, he heard a pair of running feet behind him. "Crouch!"

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knee. He felt two footfalls, one on his back and another on his shoulder. Looking up, he watched as Barlocke hurled himself at the daemon. As he did, his black leather coat rippled and swathes of energy broke from his sword, hung in the air behind him briefly, then dissipated. Barlocke held his power sword's hilt with both hands and silently drove it into the freakish giant's forehead. Immediately, the monstrosity went cross-eyed and froze. Plating one foot on its massive lower lip, Barlocke extracted the blade which was covered in black blood and green ooze. In a single vertical swipe, he brought the edge across its face, cutting its stubby nose and upper lip in half. Then, he leaped from the lip, turned, and slashed it horizontally. Landing in a crouch in front of Marsh Silas, Barlocke stood up, and faced the monster.

Its face slid apart, blood poured out, and the beast finally collapsed. Grisly, bloody, brown vomit filled with chunks, came from its mouth followed by a vile, green cloud. A terrible stench filled the chamber and more Guardsmen were obliged to cover their faces.

Standing up, Marsh walked beside Barlocke. There was silence between the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon for some time.

Eventually, the platoon sergeant approached the daemon and drove his bayonet deep into its eye. There was no movement. Planting his foot on its face, he yanked it free and turned around. Everyone was gathering around the Inquisitor, but they looked at Marsh expectantly. Flashing a smile, he nodded. Hyram smiled wide, took off his helmet, and held it into the air.

"By the Emperor, we have prevailed!"

Overcoming their shock, the Guardsmen raised their fists, weapons, and helmets into the air. They cheered so loudly the echoes bounced off the cavern walls and tunnels for some minutes.

"For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia! For the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third, and for Bloody Platoon!" they bellowed.

Marsh did not join in, smiling silently as he watched his men celebrate their victory. It was far more rewarding than any medal. Turning around, he looked back at the monster, more so to hide his exasperated face. He was happy to be alive as well and he was incredulous that he was up in the air mere moments ago. It all happened so quickly and only now that it was over did he realize how close to death he came. A shiver, impossible to resist, came over him as the adrenaline eked out of his system. After checking over his shoulder again, he made the sign of the Aquila over his heart.

"Oh Emperor of Man, I thank Thee for saving my small life this night. I shall honor Thee with continued service and good works."

Taking out his prayer beads, he kissed them and hastily tucked them away. Satisfied, he turned back around.

The Inquisitor did not share in their exaltation either. Turning, he eyed the tunnel from which the monster came. Deactivating his power sword and sliding it into its sheath, he slowly began to walk towards it. Once he noticed, Marsh did not hesitate to join him.

He slung his lasgun over his shoulder and adjusted the strap comfortably.

"How'd ya know that blow would finally do it?" he asked.

"I did not," Barlocke replied. He looked down and offered a reserved smile. "Are you well?"

"Ah, that was nothin'," Marsh said, waving him off. Barlocke scoffed.

"A lie, big or small, is most unbecoming of a man such as you, dear Silvanus," Barlocke said in a scholarly tone. "It is no shame to admit one's fears."

"But I ain't...oh, yes," the platoon sergeant grumbled, "fer a moment I forgot who I was talkin' to."

"You fought well. All of Bloody Platoon did."

"And none o' them fell," Marsh said gratefully. Quirking an eyebrow, he looked up at the Inquisitor. "Wonder how much that had to do with you."

A playful grin tugged at the corner of Barlocke's mouth and he glanced at the platoon sergeant out of the corner of his right eye.

"I just gave them a nudge or two in the right direction, that is all."

Marsh chuckled and shook his head.

"You're too much for me, old boy," Marsh said. He looked over his shoulder, then jerked his thumb back at the enormous corpse. "What is that thing there? Ain't no daemon I've ever seen, nor do I want to see it again."

Barlocke shook his head and his expression grew grave. His mouth tightened and his eyes hardened. It was as if a memory, or perhaps many memories, came flooding back to him in that moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick with shame.

"What lies behind us is a dreaded Beast of Nurgle. That is all you must know. I have faced only one before and was not able to slay it then. Many a good man died, resultant of my failure. I pray to the Emperor I can offer this feat in recompense."

To Marsh Silas, it was quite unnerving to see Barlocke exhibit such a tone. He was always so self-assured, confident, present in any situation, and in control. A revelation to a past failure was more than a shock, it seemed utterly uncharacteristic of the Inquisitor. Yet, instead of diminishing his opinion of this agent, it enhanced it. Admitting one's own failures was a challenge even for the bravest, strongest Guardsman. He imagined it was even more difficult for an esteemed servant of the Holy Inquisition. In that moment, Marsh Silas could not admire him more.

Broken from his thoughts by Barlocke's hand pressing against the breastplate of his flak armour, he found himself standing in front of the entrance to the final cave of the complex. A terrible smell rose from within, similar to that which emanated from the slain daemon. Yet there was another stench that was far more acrid; stale, sickly, and dead. Once again, Marsh began to gag.

He looked up at Barlocke. The Inquisitor's face was hard as stone, just like a Guardsman's before throwing himself into the fray of battle. He reached into his coat and pulled his Inquisitorial Rosette from his neck. After kissing the bone-white I-shape pendant, he murmured briefly in High Gothic, then wrapped the chain round his fingers until the pendant clung tightly to his palm.

Marsh also took his M36 from his shoulder, but Barlocke stepped in front of him and turned slightly. "No, I shall venture within alone."

"Whatever lies inside, I can fight it too," Marsh Silas insisted.

A soft smile tugged at Barlocke's lips.

"You are brave indeed, Silvanus, but what waits in that deep is something that cannot be fought."

Barlocke reached over and cupped Marsh's cheek. "Wait for me here. Let no one else pass."

The Inquisitor turned around, cupped both hands around his Rosette, bowed his head, and began walking down the tunnel. As he did, he uttered High Gothic prayers. His tone was low yet musical. Chanting, he disappeared down the tunnel and around the corner. Echoes of his praying lingered for some time, traveling back down the cave. But soon, they too grew silent.

Still holding his M36, Marsh Silas gazed down the tunnel. He felt the cool yet pungent air of the tunnel against his bare face. Behind him, Bloody Platoon chattered as they regrouped and tended their wounded. But no sound came up the tunnel. All was still and dark.

Sliding up his left sleeve, he checked his watch. A minute passed, then another, and another.

He began to feel nervous. Looking over his shoulder, he tried to find the confidence of Junior Commissar Carstensen or Lieutenant Hyram. Both were preoccupied with the Guardsmen, either helping the field chirurgeons or going over wargear with Guardsmen. Unwilling to call on either of them for fear of seeming incapable of maintaining a mundane task such as standing at a post, he stayed silent.

_Barlocke? _He spoke in his own mind, hoping the Inquisitor would hear him. _Barlocke? _

Expectant, he closed his eyes. He waited for the familiar chill that crept up his spine and flooded his mind or the rarer warmth which felt as though a pleasant ray of sunlight was glowing within himself. Nothing came.

Opening his eyes, he checked the charge pack loaded in his M36. There was still enough charge for a firefight. Whether it was a daemon or a surviving heretic, it mattered not. He would fight with his bayonet or bare hands if he had to. Although, he liked to believe that nothing of the sort would ever be able to eliminate someone of Barlocke's skill. If anyone could survive the onslaught of Chaos, it would be the Inquisitor. He trusted him. But he was afraid; Marsh Silas did not want anything to happen to his friend.

Closing his eyes again, he took a breath.

"My Emperor, my one true god, my only leader. I venture forth into darkness. I ask Thee for protection and guidance. Be my light, oh Emperor of Man."

Just as he took a step, he heard chanting. Freezing to his spot, he heard footsteps on the cavern floor. The ritualistic praying grew louder. Barlocke came around the corner of the tunnel, his hands still clasped in front of him. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed so low his lips were nearly against his hands.

When he finally came through the entrance, he stopped right in front of Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant let his M36 hang by the strap and took him by the shoulders. The Inquisitor was trembling. His prayer ceased, he looked up with almost sleepy eyes, and let go of his Rosette. Slowly, he brought it up to his lips and kissed it.

"Thank you, my Emperor," he whispered. Putting his Rosette back around his neck, he reached out and clasped Marsh Silas by the base of his neck. "Fetch Yoxall."

Activating his micro-bead, he hailed Yoxall. The demolition expert hurried over, as fast as his wounded leg would allow him. Barlocke let go of Marsh Silas and put an arm around Yoxall. "My dear man, you've brought explosives."

Yoxall, also quite comfortable around Barlocke, quirked an eyebrow.

"I would not be much of an expert if I forgot'em at base, Inquisitor," he replied, somewhat playfully, but ultimately irritated.

Amused, the Inquisitor chuckled.

"Quite right, my trust in you was well-placed. Give me a single charge and detonation cord. We're wiring this entire cavern to blow."

"I have enough for that, by the Emperor, I can assure you o' that," Yoxall added. Taking a knee, he took off his rucksack, and pulled the charge out. Marsh helped him unclip the spool of detonation wire from his lower back webbing. Barlocke took both and once again disappeared down the tunnel. This time, he did not pray. But he returned more expediently than before, unspooling the wire as he did.

While Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen rallied Bloody Platoon and led them out of the cave complex. The platoon sergeant brought up the rear, covering Barlocke and Yoxall as they laid more charges at choke points and weak points in the cave's structure. Having spent the better part of ten years demolishing everything from abandoned fortifications to ramshackle Ork vehicles, he had an in-depth understanding of the best locations to plant an explosive charge.

By the time they exhausted all their charges, they were at the mouth of the cave. The rest of the regiment was waiting for them. It was still dark out but the fires were still burning. Many of the Guardsmen were holding up their lamp packs, creating brilliant pockets of golden light. Colonel Isaev was in front of them all with Hyram and Carstensen. When Marsh Silas, Yoxall, and Barlocke approached with their demolition equipment, he came forward. He wore an irritated expression.

"You were supposed to call on us when it was time to assault the cave," he growled.

"Bloody Platoon had it well in hand. They fought as a unit, overcame enemy resistance, and completed their objective. There was no need to risk the entire regiment, Colonel," Barlocke replied. "Now, if you would excuse us sir, Corporal Yoxall and Staff Sergeant Cross have duties to attend to. Please, clear the area."

Gritting his teeth, Isaev waved his hand. The company commanders called on their men to move out. As they filed out of the single entrance, Marsh, Yoxall, and Barlocke followed them. The demolition expert continued to let wire off the spool. When they came to the entrance, where Hyram and Carstensen were waiting for them, they halted.

Taking the detonator out, he placed it in the sand, and wrapped the detonation cord around the connectors. Once the lines were fastened, he looked up at Marsh and Barlocke.

"Would either o' you want the honors o' doin' it?"

Marsh looked at Barlocke, who smiled and nodded at the plunger.

"By all means, go right ahead Silvanus."

Marsh shouldered his M36, crouched, and took hold of the plunger. Barlocke covered his ears while Yoxall slid his under his helmet.

"Fire in the hole!" Marsh Silas shouted, shoving it down. Deep within the cave, there was a rumble, then another, and another. Soon, the charge exploded at the entrance. Dust, sand, and rock flew outward. There was a great crumbling and crashing, concealed by the dust. As the explosion's echo carried over the coast, the dust settled. When it did, they found the entire entrance collapsed. Nothing was left but a wall of fallen, broken rock.

All three stood up. Marsh and Yoxall smiled at one another, hooking an arm around the other's shoulders. Barlocke came up behind them and wrapped his arms around both their shoulders.

"Men," he began confidently, "we are one step closer to destroying this heresy."

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	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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Just as the sun began to dip two days later, the entire regiment found itself in formation in the main courtyard beyond their headquarters once again. Dressed in crisp winter fatigues, shaved, and groomed, the Guardsmen stood at attention with their chins held high. Colonel Isaev and the regimental staff stood in front of the main body of troops in between two standards, held by flag-bearers. Crisp, ocean winds whipped the flags, making them snap and flutter. Normal routines ceased for the duration of the ceremony; Enginseers' bands of servitors fell quiet and much of the supporting personnel were watching from the periphery.

Marsh Silas was glad for the stimulant Honeycutt gave him earlier. His side still ached terribly after receiving such a wound. Standing in front of Bloody Platoon with Lieutenant Hyram to his right and Junior Commissar Carstensen to his left. All their uniforms were cleaned and pressed, flak armour was polished and the olive drab sheen shone brightly in the sun. Officers and non-commissioned officers wore khaki soft-cover, low-peaked caps. Absent were some of the wounded men from the previous action.

Standing in the center of his adjutants, Colonel Isaev puffed his chest out and folded his hands behind his back.

"Today, Cadian High Command wishes to honor those of you who performed able service during operations. I am very proud that you are to be decorated once more in such short order. It proves not only to myself but more importantly, the Emperor of Man, that Cadians are the finest soldiers the Imperium has to offer. And the 1333rd Regiment is composed of very brave troops."

One of his staff officers stepped over with a data-slate which he promptly passed over to the regimental commander. Colonel Isaev began to read a list of names for different medals. Medics and field chirurgeons were called up to receive Crimson Skulls. Another more populous wave of troops were called up to receive Eagle Ordinaries. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, Walmsley Minor, Yoxall, and several other members of Bloody Platoon were summoned. Standing in a line, they waited for Colonel Isaev. Wearing their ribbon racks, many had already received the award. Subsequent decorations were denoted on the ribbon with miniature bronze skull pins. Marsh possessed one bronze pin, while Carstensen's ribbon was decorated with a silver skull. Hyram's ribbon rack was very sparse.

Marsh Silas wondered if the junior officer was embarrassed to be standing among decorated Guardsmen. But his face was firm like the other assembled troops, betraying no emotion. Even if he felt like he was not fit to be among them, Marsh Silas did not believe he needed to feel ashamed. He fought very well during both battles and led his men ably. It was a service to be proud of, but Marsh knew the Lieutenant was not going to let it go to him. Seeing the officer, standing tall with his chin up, made the platoon sergeant grin.

His smile quickly disappeared as Colonel Isaev stepped in front of him, his black leather boots thudding on the concrete pavement. But the regimental commander was smiling. From the medal chest, he pulled out a bronze skull pin which he promptly attached to the blue and gold ribbon.

When he finished, he stood back. "Your third one, Marsh Silas. You must be proud."

"I am honored, sir!" Marsh Silas replied loudly and saluted. Isaev nodded approvingly, returned the salute, and continued down the line. Once all the Guardsmen were decorated, they were ordered back into formation.

Marsh Silas was certain Colonel Isaev would share a few, last words with the regiment before dismissing them. He was surprised when he resumed his original position among his clique of officers.

"For their daring infiltration and valorous assault on the heretical stronghold, First Platoon, First Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, shall receive the Ribbon Intrinsic. The Guardsmen of First Platoon proved their unanimous faith in the Emperor, their loyalty to one another, and their capability as a combat unit, can carry the day as just as well as a wall of bayonets."

Several of his officers, carrying small chests, filed out towards Bloody Platoon. They went down each row and pinned the pendant on the chest of every Guardsmen in the platoon. Everyone beamed with pride. Marsh Silas did too as the pendant was placed right beside his first award. When everyone received it, the officers returned to the other regimental staff members.

Colonel Isaev nodded approvingly. "Take rest, ye Guardsmen, while you can. The Emperor will have need of you before long. Dismissed."

The entire regiment saluted; the simultaneous snap of arms to brow's pierced the air. Isaev returned it. Officers turned on their heels, belted out orders, and the formation broke apart. While other companies and platoons filed back to their quarters before their next detail, Bloody Platoon gathered around. Fellow Guardsmen embraced one another, sometimes in groups of three, four, and five. Praise and congratulations passed between the honored brothers. All greeted one another with smiles and laughter. Some shook hands and others pressed their foreheads together. Eventually, all the various clots and groups of Guardsmen knelt, offered prayers of gratitude to the Emperor, and then rose up.

Marsh Silas parted from Drummer Boy, Yoxall, Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Honeycutt, Logue, and Foley. When he turned around, he found Hyram also parting from some of the others. He wore a proud, wide smile. As their gazes met, the platoon leader worked his way through Bloody Platoon and over to Marsh. Just as he closed in, the platoon sergeant saluted. Hyram returned the gesture smartly before the two locked hands, pulled each other in, and patted each other on the back. It was natural and without second thought. Even as they parted, their hands were still clenched.

"Well done, sir."

"The same to you, Marsh Silas. You performed quite the spectacle up in the air with Yoxall and Walmsley Minor."

"A feat I wish not to repeat," Marsh replied jovially. He looked down and saw the Lieutenant was holding something in his free hand. Hyram noticed, smiled shyly, and opened his fingers. Sitting on his palm were several Ribbon Intrinsic's.

Marsh Silas looked up with confusion as his own hand dropped. His superior officer shrugged. "Some of our wounded weren't able to attend the ceremony. Colonel Isaev told me I could pin these on their chests instead of him. Methinks you ought to do something like that."

The platoon sergeant looked down at the ribbons. Each was composed of a brass medallion in the shape of a shield which curved into a point at the bottom. Out of the two immediate edges came the black ribbon, with a large middle column and smaller ones on either side. Each was divided by a thin, white, vertical bar. Etched into the brass was the double-headed Aquila, with a pronounced, tufted neck.

While it was not of gold or silver like the other medals on his chest, Marsh Silas always looked upon the Ribbon Intrinsic fondly. His first was awarded during his days in the Youth Army. The 540th Youth Corps was his first home in the Astra Militarum. It was there he met the likes of Arnold Yoxall, the Walmsley Brothers, Logue, Foley, Monty Peck, Efflemen, Olhouser, Hitch, Bullard, Sudworth, and eventually most of the men who made up Bloody Platoon. One by one, he came to call them comrades, then brothers. Bound by faith and war, they survived countless onslaughts, operations, and battles. When the 540th Youth Corps was destroyed, it was they who survived and earned the Ribbon Intrinsic and the Triple Skull. While the latter was one which unearthed painful, horrifying memories, it was the former which reminded him of that kinship. Those who survived were forever bound together and always would be, even if many of their fellow Guardsmen were laid low. To bestow it on his friends would not only be an honor but a privilege among such a tight-knit band.

After a moment, Hyram held out his hand. Marsh reached out, ready to take them. Yet, his hand hesitated. Then, he wrapped his fingers around Hyram's and closed them on the ribbons. Marsh met Hyram's confused gaze with a kind smile.

"Sir, I think it best if you awarded those men these here ribbons. It'd mean somethin' coming from you."

"They don't respect me like they do you."

"You have to earn their respect. But they have to earn yours as well." Marsh pointed across the grounds to the Officio Medicae infirmary. "Goin' in thar yourself would see both done."

Hyram opened his hand and looked upon the ribbons again. At first, he seemed almost ashamed. But his brow eventually knitted with determination and he looked up. He nodded resolutely.

"I shall see it done." Hyram turned around and began walking towards the infirmary. After a few paces he stopped and turned around. With a cheerful grin, he nodded at the platoon sergeant. "When we find ourselves in our barracks once more, we'll be sitting down for lessons."

"Yes, sir, looking forward to it sir," Marsh replied sarcastically and added a slovenly salute for effect. Hyram just laughed, shook his head, and continued on his way. Watching him go, Marsh Silas could not help but smile. Even after the platoon leader passed through the entrance of the Medicae, he was still watching.

Despite the ache in his side, Marsh felt good. Bloody Platoon survived another successful operation. Not a single Guardsmen perished and they performed admirably under terrible conditions. He was proud of them and grateful for the Emperor for their continued victory.

For a time, he stood and watched Bloody Platoon as they walked towards their barracks in high spirits. To hear their colorful banter, rough swearing, and raucous laughter brought joy to the platoon sergeant's heart. Watching the men traverse the slope, he took out his pipe, stuffed it with tabac leaves, lit it, and began smoking. After taking a few puffs, he opened his mouth and sighed audibly. Thin, gray smoke filtered out and was snatched away by the wind.

He decided to follow them but only took several steps before he found himself face to face with Junior Commissar Carstensen. Immediately, he stood at attention and saluted.

"Ma'am!"

"Staff Sergeant," she said. "You may stand at ease." Just as he relaxed his posture, the Junior Commissar reached forward and plucked the ebony pipe from the platoon sergeant's mouth. "Staff Sergeant, we have made a habit these past operations of saving one another from peril. I find this..." she took a puff on the pipe and exhaled. "...amusing." She turned the pipe around and around in her hands. The ebony shone brightly in the setting sun. Her thumb ran over the Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl and then she tapped the end of the neck with her index finger.

Eventually, she looked back up at him. "It seems I have an ally in you. Some Guardsmen would be most content with letting their Commissar perish and be free of the threat they pose."

Briefly, Marsh Silas thought about stating they posed no threat; Commissars were meant to empower and inspire troops. But he could tell by her green-blue gaze, hard as ferrocrete, that she would see through the ploy. He knew that _she _knew he was well aware of how Guardsmen feared their Commissars. Even true soldiers like Cadians were wary of them. For so long, Marsh Silas had been under the watchful eyes of Ghent and too many times had the Commissar proven his ruthlessness.

His heart thumping in his chest, he cleared his throat.

"Not I, ma'am. Commissar may you be, ma'am, but we all be soldiers o' the Emperor. We have a duty to Him and to one another."

Carstensen regarded him for a moment, puffing on Marsh's pipe. Her brow remained furrowed and her eyes hardened. She took a step forward and it took all of Marsh's courage not to take one back. With an inquisitive glare, she looked him up and down. Eventually, her expression softened.

Taking the pipe from her lips, she exhaled one final time and turned it around.

"Open."

Marsh blinked and gingerly opened his mouth. Carstensen rested the neck of the pipe on his bottom lip. "Close."

Marsh Silas obeyed and adjusted the pipe. Carstensen folded her hands behind her back. After regarding him for a moment, she nodded a little. "I am sure you are alone in this thinking among your fellow Guardsmen."

"These gunmen will follow any order you give'um and if they don't, they'll have to answer to me," he said in a rough tone and jerked his thumb towards himself. "I'll whip'em into shape."

At this, Carstensen smirked a little.

"I would expect nothing less, although I suppose you would rather wish they receive punishment from you than I."

Marsh blinked a little, his lips parting just enough to let his pipe droop.

"I ain't soft on'em, Junior Commissar."

"Let's hope for your sake and their's, you're not." Carstensen adjusted her cap slightly on her orange locks and swept a strand behind her hair. "Carry on, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh Silas stood at attention and saluted. Carstensen returned the gesture, turned on her heel, and began walking towards the barracks. A few paces away, she stopped. She did not turn around immediately but her posture remained fixed. Eventually, she turned halfway and looked back at the platoon sergeant. "I do not believe Bloody Platoon will be requiring any such..." here she hesitated, her eyes moved as if she was searching for something, and her lips seemed to move a little. "..._whipping_, as you say, at the present time. Their performance in the field is satisfactory. As is yours."

Without another word or gesture, she swiftly turned and began marching towards the barracks. Marsh Silas stood among the dispersing crowd of the regiment, pipe dangling from his lips and eyes blinking. It took him some time to overcome his stupor and when he did, he could not help but feel that he may have just cheated death.

He plucked his low-peaked cap from his blonde locks, ran his free hand through them, scratched, neatened it, and placed his hat back on. Just as he was about to follow, he felt an arm fall across his shoulders and whirl him around. He found himself being marched towards the front gate. Looking up to his left, he frowned as he saw Barlocke staring at him, a smug smile plastered to his face.

"She's _intrigued _by you, young sergeant," he said.

"Really?" Marsh asked, blinking.

"Well, as intriguing as a flake during snowfall," Barlocke joked, making himself laugh. "Oh, don't pout, Silvanus. I only jest. Yes, she is intrigued by you. Or perhaps, it might be more apt to say she's confused by you."

"I'm a plain fellow, methinks."

"Not quite so," Barlocke assured him. "You may just _look _like another one of these Guardsmen, but that doesn't make you exactly like them in every regard. You're your own man and a special one at that."

"Special, pah."

The pair exited the gate. Barlocke waved at one of the sentries. The sentry, never having been engaged by an Inquisitor once in his life, let his eyes pop with shock and his shoulders sag. After a moment, he weakly raised a hand and returned the gesture. With Barlocke's arm still around him, Marsh plodded down the road until they were past the perimeter fortifications. Just in front of the tangles of anti-tank traps and barbed wire entanglements were the yellow flower fields.

Together, they veered into them, pushing through the green stalks. Yellow petals fell from brownish buds as they did. Salty winds caught the petals, swirling them around in little clouds before abating. Hundreds of little yellow petals would then flutter to the earth.

Barlocke squeezed Marsh's shoulder. "I could tell you were different from the moment I met you. You dress like a Cadian, talk like a Cadian, act like a Cadian, fight like a Cadian, look like a Cadian—"

"I _am _Cadian."

"—but there's more to you than that."

"Now I'm interested," Marsh replied half-jokingly, complementing his tone with an unconvinced smile and a roll of his violet eyes. He puffed his pipe and readjusted it, holding it by the neck with his middle and forefinger, while his ring and little finger remained vertical. The pair did not parallel the road and instead ventured towards the beach. Before long, they broke from the swaying yellow flowers and found their booted feet in the sand. Breakers crashed on the shore, sending white spray in all directions.

"You'll certainly be disappointed with my answer."

"I shan't like what you have to say about me?"

"I haven't a clue as to what makes you so different from the rest," Barlocke said, finally sliding his arm off Marsh's shoulder. He walked around in front of him, reached out, and held Marsh's upper arms. "And that's what makes you so fascinating!"

A wry smile tugged at Marsh's lips.

"When you finally find your answer, I suppose I'll become rather boring, then?"

"By the Emperor, no. You are my friend, and friends never cease to be entertaining." He quirked an eyebrow, raised his gaze, and thought for a moment. 'Well, good friends at the very least."

Letting go, Barlocke turned around and took a few paces towards the surf. When he stopped, he took off his cap and let the wind play with his dark hair. Then, he placed his hands on his hips and breathed in deeply. From behind, Marsh Silas regarded him with curiosity. After taking a puff on his pipe, he released a cloud of smoke. "

"So, the Junior Commissar...?"

"She said it herself. Many Guardsmen would pass their Commissar by if they were in great danger. All know the reputation of such agents from Officio Prefectus. In the quiet sectors of our vast, great Imperium, where no enemies besiege our worlds, a Commissar is more of a threat than a rampaging Ork or a piratical Eldar." Barlocke looked over his shoulder just enough to reveal one of his deep, dark eyes and his clever grin.

Immediately, Marsh Silas felt Barlocke in his mind again. This time it was warm, like a hand gently laying his head upon a pillow. Instinctively, he closed his eyes and a sigh passed between his lips. For a moment, he could not tell if he was standing up or laying among the soft flowers behind him. He did not wish to know and simply basked in the sensation spreading from his mind to the rest of his body. Every breath he took was deep and sweet. So candied was the taste he took his pipe from his lips and let the strange air fill his lungs.

When the feeling faded, he felt momentarily sad. But he opened his eyes, cleared his throat, and put his pipe back. Barlocke was still looking at him, his eyes burning bright and his smile even wider. "I can feel your fear of them. More than that, your animosity for them."

"Animosity?"

"Hatred." Barlocke turned. "Perhaps, one in particular?"

Marsh Silas frowned.

"You was in my head and you didn't find it?"

"My dear Sergeant, if I dipped into the memory of each and every individual I met, life would be very boring. I assure you still I have never delved into your past without your express permission. But the feelings you conjure up, those are unavoidable even for someone as practiced as myself."

When Marsh Silas didn't answer, Barlocke turned around and held out his arms. "Well, will you tell me who it is?"

"Ain't many Commissars in our regiment. You're bound to figure it out," Marsh said rather bluntly. Barlocke did not seem hurt but delighted. It was as if someone presented him with a challenge he was all too eager for.

"Ghent was the only one upon my arrival. I wonder what he did to merit your rancour."

"I ain't one to talk about it now. We was speakin' of the Junior Commissar."

"Oh, yes indeed. You ponder why she is curious of you, yet I am more intrigued as to your curiosity of her. Maybe she is just as much an oddity to you as you are to her." Marsh Silas did not answer immediately. Barlocke turned completely and approached. Slightly stooping to keep his eyes level with Marsh, he wore a smirk. "Perhaps, you find her beautiful?"

At that moment, Marsh was in the middle of inhaling from his pipe. Suddenly, the smoke seemed to catch in his throat and he coughed.

"What makes you say that?" he finally wheezed.

"I've seen you looking at her."

"Only a fool doesn't pay attention to a superior officer when they be speaking."

"Except your eyes find her whether she speaks or not."

Marsh Silas was about to speak, but he found his voice faltering and he felt deflated. Sighing, he gently lowered his pope and his gaze fell upon his boots. Not a moment later, he felt Barlocke's hand upon his shoulder. He looked up and found the Inquisitor's smile to be far kinder. "No shame, Silvanus, no shame. It's perfectly alright to look."

"It ain't that," Marsh protested. "She's more than just somethin' to look at. She's one hell of a soldier. I admire and I suppose I feel like I owe her much. I would have gotten my chest right torn up if she had not pushed me aside."

"And so bravely too," Barlocke said, hooking his thumbs on his belt loops. "She saw it as a matter of duty. So are yours, although perhaps not for the same reasons. Look out for one another as soldiers, as you have, but don't act as though you are indebted. She does not feel that way."

"How can you be certain she...oh, yes."

Barlocke chuckled and faced the sea once again. Slowly, he approached the surf until his boots were submerged. Breakers threatened to spill over the top of his footwear and fill them up. But as the cold water washed over his feet and receded, leaving nothing but white foam, the Inquisitor remained perfectly still.

To Marsh Silas, it seemed as though Barlocke did not feel the cold at all. The man seemed undisturbed

"Perhaps, when it is finally time to go, she can come with us."

Marsh nodded a little, stopped, and looked up.

"She'll be on the next operation, won't she?"

"As many as we need to conduct to wipe out this heresy," Barlocke said without turning around. "Afterwards, I know not."

"Speak sense, Barlocke."

"I am an agent of our Emperor's Holy Inquisitor. When my mission is completed here, He will call me to another distant realm. When that time comes, I am hoping you will come with me."

The words pierced Marsh Silas's heart as if they were an autogun slug. From the moment they were born, Cadians were instilled not only with great love for their Emperor and the Imperium, but their homeworld as well. It stood as the first bastion of many against the Eye of Terror. Such importance was not lost on loyal, dutiful Cadian sons and daughters. But all Shock Troopers longed for an off-world assignment, to engage in a campaign or crusade for the glory of the Emperor. Such an honor was worth departure from their sacred world. To say that he never dreamed of serving in a crusading army would be a lie.

Finally confronted with the prospect of leaving, Marsh Silas suddenly felt hollow. Never had Barlocke mentioned taking the platoon sergeant with him once the mission was complete. It never crossed Marsh's mind either; he was close enough with Barlocke, and the Inquisitor was so familiar throughout the regiment, it seemed as though he would stay with them for a long time to come.

Barlocke turned around, his expression solemn. "When I came here, it was without the intent to select an Acolyte. But when I met you, I could tell you were different. You have the makings of someone more."

The pair stared at one another for a time. Their gaze was deep and intense. Barlocke's dark eyes burned like coals while the violet in Marsh's shimmered like gems. Wind ripped across the cape and the Inquisitor's trench coat fluttered. It was so strong it knocked Marsh's cap from his head and his blonde hair was swiftly thrown about. Behind his opposite, the waves grew larger, fell with greater frequency, and became more ferocious. Each time a rippling, seething breaker barreled towards land and crashed upon the sand, it sounded like an artillery shell going off. When the water rushed up towards them, it came all the way up to Barlocke's knees. Still, he did not seem to feel the water even as the spray splashed upon his back.

Marsh Silas looked down and saw his low-peaked cap sitting upside down upon the sand. For a time, he stared at it, afraid to meet Barlocke's eyes once more. Clutching his pipe firmly with his lips, he bent over, picked it up, and brushed it off. But instead of putting it back on, he began turning it over in his hands. He could not look at his friend again.

Finally, he tucked the cap under his shoulder strap and took the pipe from his lips. He looked up, not so much apprehensive as he was melancholic.

"Do I have some choice in this matter?" he managed to say. At this, Barlocke smiled pleasantly.

"Of course. You are my dear friend. I would never force you to choose. Yet, I do sincerely hope you agree to come with me."

Upon hearing such words, Marsh Silas suddenly grew bitter. Upending his pipe, allowing the wind to carry away the orange embers and gray ash, he approached the Inquisitor. He did not stop until his boots sunk into the wet sand where the waves' reach was greatest.

"Because I'm different? Special?" he asked, his tone acidic. Still, the Inquisitor's smile remained although his gaze softened.

"Yes, but as well, I enjoy you. Your voice, your words, your presence, they..." he looked down, almost as if he was shy. "...they bring great cheer to me."

Marsh's acrimonious mood proved ever brief, replaced more by bashful surprise. Straightening up, eyes a bit wider, he averted Barlocke's eyes again. Quickly, he recovered and offered a nonchalant shrug.

"Why not stay for a while then?"

"Such a prospect proves impossible, dear, dear Silvanus. Besides, the Emperor will require me elsewhere, and I would have it no other way." Barlocke turned in the surf and held his arms out. "There is great work to be done. This grand Imperium is in disrepair and in need of mending. What glory it lays claim to is not what it could be, it could be so much more, just as the Emperor intended. So Man will not have to live in fear from within and without, so that he may prosper, grow, and act as the Emperor wished, I have work to do."

Barlocke turned around, his arms still from side to the side. In the sky, the golden sun grew brighter and the sea behind him glittered. Waves smashed behind and alongside him, soaking his coat. As if the water granted him vigor, he walked quickly from the water and took Marsh by the shoulders. "And I hope, I _pray_, you come with me. I know we can make the Imperium better, better than it ever was!"

Marsh felt his heart soar. Whatever vitality coursed through Barlocke seemed to fill up the platoon sergeant's chest. He smiled widely and his eyes glowed with excitement. Seeing this, Barlocke placed his hand upon Marsh's cheek and he gently ran his thumb across it. They stood that way, nearly nose to nose, Marsh Silas felt not only happy, but was certain of his answer.

From within the camp, there was a series of extended cries. Such calls were familiar to the ears of Marsh Silas; it was a changing of the guard, as a new shift relieved the previous watch. A common procedure by any garrisoned unit, perhaps not by Guardsmen in the trenches, but it was still a tradition. There were not set words or phrases one had to utter, save for challenges in the nighttime bleakness. The words between Shock Troopers were to be brotherly, robust, and full of life. Often, they addressed one another with salutes, good tidings, blessings, smiles, handshakes, and embraces. If the morning roll call did not rouse a soldier, it was the exchange of greetings that would wake him.

A life of military tradition and duty came flooding back to Marsh Silas. From the first time he was handed an M36 lasgun to the Month of Making, his first regimental prayer to Commissar Ghent's arduous lessons, it all came back as if he was taking a long breath.

After looking at the camp for a time, he faced Barlocke and saw the Inquisitor's eyes were saddened. Unable to bear it, the platoon sergeant looked down. He felt Barlocke's hands fall from him. "I understand. To abandon such an existence would be akin to losing touch with life itself."

Such words soothed Marsh Silas and he was able to look up. Barlocke's expression was still dismal but his smile remained affable. He began to walk by the platoon sergeant but halted. Reaching over, he took him by the cheek again and guided his gaze to his. "Think on it, will you?"

"I shall," Marsh promised. Barlocke's hand remained, his fingers sliding back into Marsh's hair. His forefinger twisted one of the platoon sergeant's blonde locks around until it became a curl. Then, he slid his hand away and began walking back to camp. For a time, Marsh Silas stayed on the shore and looked at the shimmering sea. Steadily, the wind died down and the waves grew calmer. Soon, there were no breakers and the water seemed to be drawing back. With a sigh, he put on his cap and followed the Inquisitor.

###

When Marsh Silas returned to the barracks, he found his mates already gathered in their bunk area. All greeted him warmly and Drummer Boy fixed him a cup of recaf. For a while, they chatted about their exploits in the latest battle, expressed concern for the wounded still at the Medicae center, and told crass jokes.

While it felt like just another evening to the other Guardsmen, Marsh could not shake the encounter with Barlocke on the beach. It left his heart heavy and not even the company of his friends alleviated the weight. Still, he stayed in stride with the others up until his lesson with Hyram.

Hunched over the table, Marsh Silas scribbled upon a piece of parchment while his commanding officer listed certain words.

"Recaf. Syllables?"

"Two," Marsh grumbled and wrote the word down. Hyram peered over his shoulder.

"Correct. Canteen, syllables?"

"Two."

"Very good. Bandoleer, syllables?"

"Ban...do..."

"Sound it out with your mind's voice, not out loud."

"But it's easier to do it that way."

"Yes, but one day you'll be a fancy officer with a much bigger ribbon rack, and you wouldn't want those educated fellows teasing you over sounding words out aloud, would you?"

"It ain't ever gonna come to that, sir," Marsh mumbled. "Three."

"You're doing well. Let's try titles. Leman Russ Main Battle Tank. Syllables?"

"Leman—"

"Tut, tut, tut, in your _mind's _voice."

Marsh groaned as he wrote the words down.

"Six syllables."

"Incorrect."

"What!?" Marsh sat up, looking at the paper angrily, then leaned forward and examined it again. "They's six there! I was doing so well!"

"Calm yourself, Marsh Silas. We all make mistakes. Let me show you."

Grumpily, Marsh slid the paper across the table and dropped the field quill on it. With a huff, he rested his elbow on the edge and held his chin with his raised ahd. Smiling a tad knowingly, Hyram drew vertical lines between each of the syllables. As he did, Marsh's brow furrowed and he began to glare. Nodding with each stroke of the quill and mouthing out the words, he grew increasingly agitated.

Hyram tapped the second to last word in the title. "You spelled it all wonderfully, but the word, 'battle,' is not a single syllable word."

"Sounds like it. _Battle_," he said quickly.

"It's rather deceiving, it just rolls along so swiftly. If you say it slowly, you'll see the break. Bat-tle. See?"

"Bat-tle?" Marsh echoed, then groaned. "Seven syllables."

"Indeed. Don't be discouraged. You're doing very well and picking it up steadily. This won't come easy."

Marsh's posture did not change as the Lieutenant slid the paper back in front of him. He gingerly placed the field quill back on it, then folded his hands on the table. An expectant gaze lingered on Marsh Silas but the platoon sergeant instead held his chin, cupped his mouth, and stared down at it. Eventually, he shifted his gaze back to Hyram.

"You make it seem so effortless."

"I have the benefit of being taught in my youth," Hyram said, leaning a bit more on the table. "All we learn as young ones stays with us. While I was being taught to read and write, you were being trained to fire, field strip, and maintain an M36. I was not, so as you struggle with letters, I struggle with my weapon. So you see, we are both experts of some craft and we lend our knowledge to one another."

Marsh chuckled into his hands.

"I think you will have a better hand at making war than I at scribing."

"Nonsense." Hyram tapped the table and stood up. "But why don't we break and do an M36 drill?"

The Lieutenant went over to his rucksack and other equipment, stashed in the corner of his room. Propped against the wall was his M36; he took it in hand and sat down at his bunk. Turning around on the crate he sat upon, Marsh picked up his own lasgun which was against the table. Both leveled their weapons across their knees.

"Step one?" Marsh asked, grinning.

"Eject charge pack."

"Right, don't want to be blasting your mate sitting beside ya. Step two?"

"Engage the safety."

"Might be unloaded, but ya got to—"

"Sir, permission to enter!" came Drummer Boy's voice.

"Granted," Hyram answered.

The Voxman entered, stood at attention, and saluted. Hyram did not stand but still saluted. "What news?"

"Sir, the watch reports something queer in the air and strange sounds in the night."

Hyram and Marsh exchanged a glance.

"Could just be the low tide. Channels and bays round' these parts drain from time to time, usually in the morning and once more at night. Stinks terribly."

"That doesn't explain the noise," Hyram pondered. "Did they describe it?"

"Sir, they said they heard moaning. Much of it. Far off, but nobody can place it."

Again, Marsh and Hyram looked at one another. Their expressions had shifted from surprise to concern.

"Have Bloody Platoon stand to," Hyram said. "Staff Sergeant, with me."

Both donned their flak armour and helmets, took up their arms and equipment, and hurried through the barracks. As they did, the cry of 'stand to,' echoed through its hollows. Guardsmen scrambled to dress and equip themselves. When they were ready, they fell in line behind Marsh and Hyram. Squads formed up and sounded off upon their sergeants' orders. Like a tight trail of insects, they scrambled up the ladder and flooded out of the bunker.

It was an especially dark night. No stars dotted the sky and the moon maintained a muted glow behind a thick layer of clouds. Only by the dull, yellow and orange lights strung up along the sides of the trench illuminated the fortifications. Walmsley's Major and Minor began instructing the other Heavy Weapons Squads, establishing fields of fire towards the empty channel. All around, one could hear bayonets sliding out of their scabbards and being attached to M36 lugs. Once their weapons were loaded, each man mounted the parapet and rested his weapon on the edge.

Marsh followed Hyram into one of the observation posts and they crouched under the mesh netting. Both lifted their magnoculars and scanned the channel. On the opposite side, Kasr Fortis remained a giant, ominous, dark shape.

"Anything?" Hyram asked.

"Nothing, sir."

Feeling someone move behind him, Marsh turned around and expected Barlocke. Instead, he found it was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was just putting her cap back on and when she knelt beside Marsh she put a hand on his back.

"What do you see, Staff Sergeant?"

"Nothing at the moment, ma'am."

Hyram hand his magnocular set to Carstensen.

"Take over here, I'm checking the line. I'll be back. Drummer Boy, radio the regiment, tell them we're standing to."

As Drummer Boy crouched and began speaking into the handset, Marsh raised his scope again. Just as he did, a gentle but chilly wind swept from Kasr Fortis. With it came a terrible stench, one of decay. Immediately, Marsh Silas was nauseated and he had to lower his head upon the sandbags. His stomach shifted uncomfortably and he gulped, trying to keep the lump rising in his throat down. Then, he felt Carstensen's hand on his shoulder, pulling slightly. Looking up, practically dazed, she tapped him on the side of his face with her hand. In the low light of the lamp, he could see she was also sickened.

"Stay with me, Staff Sergeant," she urged. Looking around for something, she took the canteen from Marsh's belt, unscrewed the cap, and held it to his lips. Marsh drank only a little but the water soothed him enough. When he finished, he nodded in thanks. Carstensen swiftly took a drink before putting it back on Marsh's belt. She tapped the side of his helmet and pointed back towards the channel.

The smell was becoming worse. Up and down the line, Guardsmen began to cough. Behind the pair, Drummer Boy leaned forward and vomited. Marsh regarded him briefly, but Drummer Boy nodded at him and kept monitoring the handset.

"Marsh Silas, just got word right from the top: the entire regiment is to put on their gas masks."

Marsh coughed and stood up.

"Bloody Platoon, gas masks, on the double!" he hollered.

Everyone took off their ballistic goggles and attached their gask mask shields to the front of their helmet and then sealed the apparatus. Marsh Silas breathed in and out several times to test the mask and found it sealed properly. He looked over at Drummer Boy, who nodded, and then at Carstensen, who was drawing her Bolt Pistol. Affirming cries of 'gas masks on,' echoed throughout the line.

A few tense minutes ticked by. The wind from Kasr Fortis pushed against Marsh Silas. Although he could no longer smell the stench, he could hear the terrible, pained moaning. It was growing louder and closer. Just then, detonations rocked the far left flank.

"Marsh Silas, Second Platoon, Third Company is reporting mines going off at the beach!"

"Do they have a visual on the target?" Carstensen asked.

"Negative, ma'am. Regiment is going to turn on all the lights now."

Behind them, they heard heavy machinery and generators revving to life. Marsh watched as bright white industrial lights illuminated the camp. Each sector grew brighter, closing in on the perimeter defenses. Finally, the overhead lights above them flashed on and Marsh looked towards the channel. Below, in the channel, he could see shambling, moaning dead men. Sickly skin was tight over their rickety bones, intestines spilled from their open bodies, frothy green saliva leaked from their maws, and pus oozed from their ears and nostrils. All were heading towards the beach, level with the channel bottom.

"Emper protect us!"

"Open fire!" Carstensen screamed. "For the Emperor, open fire!"

The entire line erupted in lasgun and heavy weapons fire. Streaks of golden, blue, red lasbolts accompanied by tracer rounds from Heavy Bolters tore into the undead horde. Grenade launcher shells arced and landed among their numbers, blowing some to pieces and tossing dozens more in every direction. But they seemed to come on, undaunted and uncaring.

When Marsh Silas exhausted a charge pack and crouched down to load another. When he stood back up, he was about to resume firing when he saw something at the edge of the cliff in front of the observation post. A gnarled, green hand snatched the ledge. Moaning and groaning, one of the undead heaved itself up. On either side of it, dozens more appeared. Everywhere Marsh Silas looked, he could see more of them coming towards the trench. Upon setting eyes on him and Bloody Platoon, the undead wailed and shambled towards them.

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	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

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Marsh Silas flipped his M36 to full-automatic and sprayed the undead as they slithered over the cliff's edge. The sheer force of lasbolts some of the shambling creatures tumbling backwards. Undeterred, the remainder kept coming, even when arms were blown off and legs were severed. None seemed to notice the loss of their limbs and continued to moan dreadfully. Even those without both of their legs continued to crawl their way forward. Those missing all extremities but their head gnashed their teeth, writhed in place, and attempted to continue their attack. So many in number, their ghastly, prolonged cries rose above the variety of weapons along the perimeter.

The observation point Marsh, Drummer Boy, and Junior Commissar Carstensen found themselves in was withdrawn from the cliff by about fifteen meters. By the time the platoon sergeant dumped his empty charge pack and reloaded another, the corpses were covering the ground. Still, they came over the cliff and kept assailing their position.

"We need more men up here!" Carstensen yelled. "Give me your sidearm Staff Sergeant, I'll cover you!"

Marsh quickly handed her his autopistol. Holding her Bolt Pistol in her other hand, she unleashed a devastating volley of fire into the line of approaching undead. Autopistol rounds thudded into their torsos but the Bolt-shells blasted open their flesh, tore away their limbs, and cut some in half. In that instant, Marsh turned around, grabbed Drummer Boy's webbing, and dragged him from the parapet. Grabbing him by the collar of his flak armour, he had to scream in his face to be heard. "Get on the Vox and call for reinforcements at OP One! Get First Squad, get Second, get anyone!" He turned to return to the parapet, but stopped and turned halfway around. "And get a fucking Heavy Bolter team here now!"

Drummer Boy knelt and began speaking into the handset. Marsh stepped back onto the parapet, took his autopistol from Carstensen, and slid it back into his holster. Then, he resumed firing. On and on they came, slowly, untiring. In his peripheral vision, Marsh could see more of the monsters clambering and slithering over the lip of the cliff. With the observation post forward of the combat trench, it was soon besieged by undead from not only the front but its flanks as well.

Try as he might to remain collected, Marsh felt himself growing more frantic. He would fire several lasbolts to the front, then would swivel to his left and fire at the undead encroaching on his position. To his right, he could see Carstensen ably discharging her Bolt Pistol at the front before firing the rest on the right flank.

Marsh knew he was running low on his charge pack; the automatic fire was draining it inordinately fast. But he did not dare switch back to semi-automatic fire; there were far too many. Even when he ejected the charge pack and loaded the fourth in, he would not. He felt a hand snatch the collar of his flak armour and turn him to the right. For a brief, terrifying moment he thought one of the undead slipped past Carstensen. But it was her and he recoiled when she shoved her face in his.

"Control your fire, Marsh Silas! Sever the limbs, aim for the head! Semi-automatic fire, that's an order!" At that moment, one of the undead was about to stumble into the barbed wire entanglements. Before Marsh could call out the target, she pointed her Bolt Pistol at it, squeezed the trigger, and shot it in the head. The shell exploded and blew the top of its cranium off. As if what little rigidity remained in its cracking bones was instantly sapped, the beast collapsed into a pile just in front of the barbed wire. Looking back, Carstensen's blue-green eyes gleamed through her gas mask visor asi red, golden, and blue lasgun fire tore through the night. "Understood, Staff Sergeant!?"

"Yes, Junior Commissar!" he yelled back.

His fear quashed, he flipped the switch, and recalled a lifetime of firing drills. He pressed the buttstock of his M36 to his shoulder, focused the sights on the head of an incoming dead man, inhaled, and squeezed the trigger. A beautiful red streak emitted from the barrel and struck the target right in its forehead. The heat seared the hair, matted with fecal matter and sewage, as well as the tight, ghoulish skin of the forehead. The lasbolt itself tunneled through the top of its skull.

Exhaling, he aimed at another target and fired, then at another, and another. For a moment, it felt like he was back on a Kasr garrison range. When he looked at Carstensen for a brief moment, seeing her outline by the laser and tracer fire, she looked back at him.

"Keep firing! The Emperor is with us! Keep firing!"

Although he felt his resolve strengthening, he was still afraid. The undead filled him with horror. In the instances of light permeating the combat trench, he could see their jaws snapping, the yellow, rotted teeth dripping with saliva and blood. As their mouths opened and closed, emitting their awful moans, some of the teeth fell from the blackened gums. Putrid green clouds wafted from their maws. Pus and blood oozed from open wounds, sliding down their exposed flesh and staining their muddied, tattered clothing. Shriveled brown and green skin was so tight upon their bones they looked more like skeletons than any sort of being. What flesh they did have was marked by bulbous pustules, which glimmered with moisture and popped. All the while, they stared upon the Guardsmen with pale, dead eyes, conveying nothing, bearing no emotion.

Revolted and terrified, Marsh kept firing. More of them fell under his M36 barrel but on and on the rest came. The entire ground between the observation post's defenses was covered by heaps of slain undead. More were coming up on the flanks, but accurate, sustained fire from Bloody Platoon continued to cut them down. Even though they tripped over corpses and had to climb over the piles, they came on.

Finally, they were at the barbed wire entanglements lining the ground in front of the combat trench. One after the other became trapped in it. Razors sliced open their skin, which was thinner than parchment. Entire patches were stripped off by single barbs. Others lost eyes or lips, and their faces became scarred in twisted, ragged ways. Losing faces and scalps, the bloody skulls were exposed. But the body kept coming, the teeth chattering and snapping. Crawling and clawing their way over the bloody heaps of dead, they closed in on the observation post from the left flank, then the right, and finally from the front. Clumps of bodies covered the barbed wire and became bridges for the undead behind them.

Climbing over, they stumbled down just in front of the combat trench. With a cry, Marsh thrust his bayonet forward and pierced the skull of one just trying to crawl in. Withdrawing it with little difficulty, he jammed it into the knee of one that managed to stand. When it collapsed, he freed the bayonet and fired a lasbolt into its head, which promptly blew apart and scattered blood and bits of skull on the parapet.

Another crawled forward with surprising speed. Marsh thrust upwards and the bayonet spiked through the soft bottom of its jaw. But it stopped at the roof of its mouth. Screaming hoarsely, it attempted to snatch the platoon sergeant by his arms. The bayonet was jammed and his M36 was at an awkward angle. Pulling down would draw the beast in and leaving his weapon was out of the question. As he struggled to level it out, he could see more gathering around it. Slimy arms and bony hands shot out at him, trying to grab him wherever they could.

Suddenly, Carstensen's Bolt Pistol barrel was pressed against its temple. She pulled the trigger and the head seemed to implode. With the body limp, Marsh freed his weapon. "Back up," the Junior Commissar ordered, "on my shoulder, Staff Sergeant! Together!"

Both took a step back; Marsh's right shoulder pressed against her left. Side by side, they fired as quickly and accurately as they could. As they did, they began to back out of the observation post.

"Drummer Boy, get out of here! Move down the line!" Marsh yelled over his shoulder. But the Voxman didn't reply. Instead, he dropped the handset, took up his M36, and came up to Marsh's left.

Suddenly, Marsh's helmet-embedded micro-bead crackled. It was Walmsley Major.

"Marsh Silas, get down!"

"Down, down!" Marsh cried. He shoved Drummer Boy away, grabbed Carstensen by her arm, and jumped back from the observation post. Just as the undead began storming the position, a stream of Heavy Bolter fire from the right flank swept across the top of the post. Mesh netting was blown away, wooden supports chewed away, and the walking corpses were smashed to pieces.

Looking briefly, Marsh could see the muzzle flash of the heavy weapon down the trench. Silhouetted behind the shield was Walmsley Major, the gunner, and Walmsley Minor, who was feeding the belt. At Observation Post Two, the two brothers established an enfilading field of fire. All the undead between the two positions were cut down; the roar of the Heavy Bolter was a glorious sound to Marsh's ears.

But he heard movement to his left and he quickly swiveled around with his M36. In the same instant, he activated the lamp attachment on the side of his barrel. He was relieved to see Lieutenant Hyram rushing down the trench with Babcock, Sergeant Holmwood, and the rest of First Squad, behind him.

The platoon leader took a knee beside Drummer Boy. First, he pointed at Marsh.

"The left flank is holding, we've been reinforced!" Then, he tapped the Voxman on the side of his helmet to get his attention. "Get on the platoon net and have the other squad leaders sound off. I need to know our situation."

"All Bloody Platoon stations, report!" Drummer Boy shouted into the handset. After a moment, he turned to Hyram. "Second and Third squads are holding; Heavy and Special Weapons are with them."

Hyram cradled his M36 against his chest, nodding.

"If they get in this trench we're doomed," he said and took the handset from Drummer Boy. "All stations, all stations, we will advance as one to the cliff's edge. Heavy Weapons, hold. Mount the parapet."

He gave the Voxman his handset back and led him into the observation post. Marsh Silas found himself between Babcock on his left, Yoxall on his right, and Carstensen behind him. From the combat trench parapet, he could see more of the undead climbing over the cliff.

"Stations reporting ready, sir," he heard Drummer Boy say to Hyram. Instead of using the handset, Hyram took the speaker from the other side of the Vox unit and turned on the amplifier.

"Bloody Platoon, advance!" he yelled, his voice carrying above the battle din. Everything unleashed a terrific war cry. Marsh jumped out of the combat trench, his bayonet poised. Beside him, Babcock was screaming at the top of his lungs while Yoxall unleashed a deep, manly shout. He felt Carstensen's hand on his shoulder, ushering him forward.

Just as the undead of the second wave before show their ugly mugs, they covered the short distance and began shooting, bayoneting, kicking, and clubbing them back down. Marsh kicked one away and aimed his M36 after it. He was confronted with a shocking sight: the horde was still thick and the jagged cliff below was covered with undead. They were like a swarm of insects on a mound of dirt, wriggling in every direction while in such close proximity to one another they appeared as a singular, writhing, wriggling entity. For some meters, the channel's edge was illuminated by the camp's high-powered lighting. Flowing like rivers from the dead Kasr's darkness, they joined into two massive groups. One continued to feed into the crowd at the bottom of the cliffs while the other shambled towards the beach. The perimeter was alight with blazing weaponry; in those brief yet multitudinous flashes of fire, Marsh could see their helmets, arms, and gas masks.

Marsh turned back. Babcock used the pointed bottom of the standard to pierce an undead's skull and force it back down. Yoxall lobbed a fragmentation grenade down and it exploded before reaching the bottom. A dull, explosive thud shook the cliff and created a cloud of gray rock dust. Broken bodies and severed limbs fell out of the clouds. More Guardsmen began to roll their grenades down the cliff's edge. Puffs of smoke and dust permeated the cliff face, blowing about dozens of the undead. Grenadiers launched explosives into the gathering crowds below, sending up clots of moist sand. Holes began to appear in the groups of undead where the shells landed. Many stumbled over the corpses of their kind and gaps were steadily filled. Those who managed to reach the top were bayoneted, skewered by combat, trench knives, and the blades of non-commissioned officers, or beaten off with M36 buttsocks and booted heels. Bodies continued to tumble down the cliff face, breaking upon the rock, splattering or disintegrating into grisly flesh and decaying bones at the bottom.

Traversing his fire to the left flank, Marsh gunned down several more of the undead. As he stopped to reload, he felt something clutch his ankle. He looked down and saw one of the monsters about to bite his leg. Crying out, he brought the buttsock of his M36 down on its head multiple times. Despite caving in its skull, its grip remained tight. Eventually, he smashed it entirely, coating the end of his lasgun with mottled blood of red, green, and brown. Brains clung to the olive drab finish of his weapon. The corpse began to fall off but its grip remained. More of them began to climb upon his body, adding to the weight on Marsh's leg. Losing his footing, Marsh turned and tried to grab something. With solid rock beneath him, he couldn't even dig his fingers in.

Feeling his fingernails scrape and break against the surface, Marsh yelled out as he managed to clutch the ledge. Immediately, there was so much weight tugging on his leg it sent a jolt of pain up into his back. Looking over his shoulder, he saw all fall away save for the corpse clinging to his leg. Far below, the horde saw him and they raised their arms skyward. Grasping at air and moaning loudly, it was as if they were begging for him to come down.

Trying to pull himself proved futile. Between the weight of his own wargear and the body on his leg, he did not have the strength. His grip on the ledge was beginning to slip, but then he felt hands on his wrists. He looked up and found The demolition expert was squatting and trying to pull him up. Babcock was fending off two of the undead trying to snatch his feet and Carstensen was firing upon a group about to spill over the top.

Looking back down, Marsh began to kick at the dead weight but the torso was too far beneath him. Instead, he began to stamp on the frozen hand in the hopes of breaking its fingers. It wasn't working and the platoon sergeant was swiftly losing his strength. When he looked back up, he realized Yoxall was beginning to slip. Then, Drummer Boy appeared and nearly dived on top of him. He began to pull on Yoxall's webbing to pull both him and Marsh back up. Without much leverage and stable ground to dig his heels into, he began to slip himself. Babcock had to lean the standard against his shoulder, hold the Voxman's cartridge belt, and continue shooting with his other hand.

With the gaps appearing in their own firing line, undead began to creep up. One latched onto Babcock's leg and he was forced to let go of Drummer Boy to fend it off. Another, fixated on reaching the top, passed Marsh Silas and tried to climb on top of the Voxman. While he kept their jaws off him, the weight began to drag him over the cliff as well. Then, Hyram appeared, shot it off him with his M36, and yanked the Voxman back. Instead of coming to his aid, he ran to Carstensen, shouted something in her ear, and pointed at Marsh. Immediately, she pointed her Bolt Pistol down at him.

Marsh's violet eyes widened behind his gask mask. For a moment, he couldn't think, hear, or speak: all he could was focus on the Junior Commissar. Her face was hidden by her own mask. From Kasr Fortis came gentle, satly, chilly gusts of wind which rippled her sleek coat. His eyes fell on the large, looming barrel of her Bolt Pistol. It seemed pointed directly at his face. Then, it all made sense; there was no pulling him back up and it wasn't worth the risk of losing more men. Hyram and Carstensen would not let him be devoured by these creatures and would provide the Emperor's Mercy. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"My Emperor, to you I give my spirit and soul," he murmured, then opened his eyes, ready. Carstensen fired and he felt the shock of the Bolt shell fly past him. An instant later, the weight was gone from his leg. He looked down and saw the limp body falling away, as well as the arm severed at the elbow, still clutching his leg.

Marsh looked back up as the others began to pull. He let out a few, short gasps and felt involuntary tears run down his cheeks. "Fuck, _fuck!_" he cried.

Just as Babcock finished off the undead, kicking it back over the cliff, Barlocke appeared behind Yoxall and Drummer Boy. Nearly shoving them aside, he knelt, reached down, and grabbed the platoon sergeant by his flak armour webbing. Crying with effort, he pulled as hard as he could and Marsh suddenly found himself back on top of the cliff in a pile of bodies. He was gas mask to gas mask with Barlocke, who squeezed his shoulder.

"Are you alright!?" he yelled.

"Now I am!" Marsh replied as everyone struggled to their feet. He slid into a sitting position and saw the hand still around his ankle. After kicking it off failed again, he had to pry it off with his hands. Although he was wearing gloves, the sensation of touching the rotted flesh and weak bone disgusted him.

Alongside him, Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, and other members of the Heavy Weapons Squads pulled their weapons up. Hyram personally directed each time, showing them exactly where to go. Streams of Heavy Bolter rounds and Autocannon shells began to thin out the herd. Olhouser and Synder had converted the closest observation post into a mortar pit. Every few moments the sound of the mortar's _whump _could be heard, followed by the whistling shell until it exploded in the channel. Foster and Ledford rolled the Lascannon up and began firing; long, massive, red streaks began to cut swathes in the rivers of undead. Missiles flew from Knaggs and Fletcher's launcher, blowing apart dozens at a time.

A momentum was building up. Bloody Platoon had retaken the initiative and overcome the morale shock of the enemy attack. Now, they were fighting on their terms. Marsh could feel it and his confidence soared. He approached the edge where Drummer Boy tossed him his M36 and began firing again. At the bottom of the cliff, so many bodies were piling up it seemed as though they would make a staircase for the remainder.

Not long after, Drummer Boy was withdrawn by Hyram's order to monitor communications across the regimental network. Marsh's own micro-bead was alive with the members of his platoon. Men were cursing, praying, and barking orders at one another. Beside him, Hyram took great deliberation and fired with wonderful accuracy below. Already, the training was beginning to pay off. Behind him, Junior Commissar Carstensen continued to encourage the men. 'Mark your targets before you fire,' she would shout. 'The Emperor will see us through this night if only you fight!' 'You are the sons of Cadians who fought and died before you! Make them proud!' Barlocke assumed a position on Marsh's right and was holding both of his Ripper Pistols. He controlled the barking weapons ably and cut down many of the undead.

Yoxall's Meltagun blew away many of the beasts as they climbed, its golden streaks hissing through the air. Bullard knelt at the very edge, precisely picking off targets with his Long-Las. His spotter, Derryhouse, fired his Plasma Gun and the blue-white bolts struck creature after creature. Sometimes, the Guardsmen did not have enough time to reload their weapons. As the enemy clambered up, they would let their weapons hang by the strap or drop them entirely so as to draw their sidearms. Autopistols rattled and cut back the encroaching foes.

Then, Hyram was called back. Such sights Marsh saw but only in momentary glances, too focused on the enemy below. Then, he felt someone tap his helmet and found it was Hyram. Stepping back a few meters from the firing line, they knelt down and looked at each other.

"Second Platoon, Third Company's position has been overrun, they had to flee from their trench. Colonel Isaev has called upon every available Guardsmen to plug the gap but too many of the monsters have already entered the camp."

He pointed past the barracks. "The closest installation to the breach is the Medicae! If any get inside, the wounded will be slaughtered. We are _not _letting that happen!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Agreed, Lieutenant!" Barlocke exclaimed as he marched over. With him came Carstensen and other members of the platoon headquarters. "What do you propose?"

Hyram looked around quickly, thinking.

"I'll take First and Second Squads and one Heavy Bolter Team. Marsh, Carstensen, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt shall come too. Get Queshire and Stainthorpe over here!" This he said to the Voxman who communicated the order across the platoon link. The two squad leaders promptly arrived and he explained the plan to them. "Third Squad and the remainder shall stay here with you two in command; you have the heavy weapons and ammunition. Can you hold?"

"Yes sir, we can for the time being," Stainthrope said, his voice rugged behind his mask.

"If you need reinforcements, I'll dispatch one of the squads. Now, to your stations!" Hyram turned to Barlocke. "Inquisitor, shall you come?"

The Inquisitor nodded. Hyram stood up. "First and Second Squads, with me! Let's move!"

As one, the Guardsmen dashed back, leaped over the combat trench, and sprinted down the slope. Everyone was running as fast as they could, shoulder to shoulder, bumping into one another. But their pace did not break. When they reached level ground, they found the situation frantic. Guardsmen were running towards the line, rallied by officers and sergeants. Colonel Isaev was advancing towards the beach with his personal staff, all of them armed to the teeth with laspistols, Bolt Pistols, chainswords and power swords. Some Guardsmen were fleeing but these men were quickly stopped by Ghent, waving his sword, shoving his weapon in their face, and screaming at them to return to battle. Every single one did as he was ordered, rediscovering his courage. Single enemies were shuffling around the camp, trying to find someone to kill. But these foes were quickly dispatched by a bayonet to the skull or a series of lasbolts blasting them to pieces.

Undead were flowing through the gap, some falling into the trench bordering the beach, others clambering over the others already in it. Some managed to find their feet and came out of the combat trench exits. Some were alone, others began herding together. More and more began to appear, driving back the Guardsmen of the Second Company back again. Artillerymen fended off the creatures attempting to overtake their Basilisks. Once they were clear, they loaded the massive guns and fired on the channel.

Marsh looked away and went to the Medicae with the others. The building was squarish, not quite a rectangle, and only had one level beyond the ground floor. Unlike the majority of the other buildings on base, it did not have the firing ports, reinforced walls, or natural defenses that characterized them. What defenses it did boast was a perimeter of sandbags walls nearly the length of all four walls. The barrier was not continuous and open at the corners.

As they filtered behind the sandbags facing the beachside trench, Hyram personally directed every man to each spot. He placed the Walmsley brothers and their Heavy Bolter at the far corner so they could erect the tripod and have a clear, advantageous field of fire. Foley was placed right beside them to cover them when they needed to reload and ward off any enemies with his shotgun. Logue was the opposite corner with his modified autopistol who would engage enemies at close range. All who carried an M36 and bayonet would form two firing lines; the first would crouch behind the sandbags while the second would stand behind them. Hyram placed Marsh with the gun team, Carstensen at the other end, and crouched in the front rank with Drummer Boy to his right and Babcock, holding the standard, to his left. In the rear, Barlocke stood with his two pistols.

Marsh glanced down at him and the Inquisitor immediately noticed.

_We shan't let any of them in_. Barlocke's voice was not cold or warm, the sensation was over quickly. It left Marsh Silas feeling stronger and more resolute. He crouched down behind the gunners.

"Ready, men?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas," they answered together. Foley echoed the same. Marsh looked down the line and saw Hyram speaking into the Vox handset.

"All Second Company stations, this is First Platoon, First Company, station one. Clear the beach trench, we are about to let these monsters feel the might of the Emperor."

No sooner was the warning issued that the forward defenders began to peel away from their position. Ushered by their officers, they assumed positions in the communication trenches on the left and right flanks or found cover adjacent to the Medicae. Unabated, the undead horde poured through and began to come towards their position. It was as if they could smell the blood and wounds of the men inside the Medicae. They came on, moaning, wailing, their arms outstretched and their gait stilted.

Then the command Marsh was waiting for came. "Open fiiiiiiire!"

Blue, golden, and red streaks lit up their line. The Heavy Bolter's report nearly deafened Marsh Silas as he picked off targets. Guardsmen were cheering, chanting, praying, screaming, swearing, and hurling taunts and insults at the enemy. In the muzzle flashes, Marsh caught glimpses of their violet eyes through their visors. Each gaze was wide and wild, as if they became manic. Adrenaline coursed through their veins and they were empowered by their faith. Hundreds fell before their barrels, creating a floor of dead leading to their sandbags.

Despite the speed, concentration, and massive weight their concentrated fire offered, the horde did not abate. Closer and closer they came on, the thick front ranks falling away but shield those behind it. Subsequent ranks protected those behind, allowing the crowd to creep forward meter by meter. Even sustained fire by flanking troops thinned them out momentarily. Soon, they were too close to fire and the Guardsmen were thrusting, stabbing, slashing, and skewering them with their bayonets. Broken, bleeding hands grasped, lunged, snatched, and tried to rip the Guardsmen from their place. Everyone was belting out war cries, deep and valorous as they fought off their assailants. Only by cutting away their limbs or severing their heads did they hold them.

Marsh thrust high and low, stopping one in its tracks. Foley stood up, loaded two shells into his shotgun, and pulled the trigger. Both shells struck center mass, blowing away its chest and exposing its ribs. He then flipped his weapon around, clutching it by the barrel like a club, and swung as hard as he could. The blow smashed the rib cage and the creature folded over. Walmsley's Major and Minor fought them off with trench knives and autopistols, but their field of fire was limited by the bodies in front of it. So they dismounted the Heavy Bolter from its tripod, rested it on top of the pile, and began raking the horde with heavy fire. Monty Peck grappled with one of the undead; unable to free himself, he headbutted the beast several times until its facial plate collapsed. But the Guardsmen took a fragmentation grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and jammed it into the creature's mouth. With a great heave, he sent the corpse back among the crowd. As the Guardsmen ducked, the grenade went off and destroyed nearly two dozen more.

One of the undead tried to lunge across the sandbag barrier, scattering several. Marsh thrust and the bayonet pierced its skull. Another, falling behind, slumped on it and grabbed the M36. Marsh squeezed the trigger and shot through the first's head, killing the one behind it. But as the bodies fell they took his M36 with it. Immediately, drew his Nine-Seventy entrenchment tool and smashed it across the head of another. When the sandbags collapsed, he pushed forward with his autopistol and shovel, cracking and blasting skulls. A hand appeared and wrested his sidearm away, so he was forced to withdraw.

_Marsh Silas! Catch!_

He turned to Barlocke, standing in the middle of the line. The Inquisitor tossed him one of the Ripper Pistols. Marsh caught and began feathering the trigger so as to fire single shots. The slugs smashed and broke open the undead's skulls. One approached him, its frothy maw poised to bite his neck. He swung the Nine-Seventy, embedding the bladed edge into its cheek. Immediately, he pressed the barrel of the Ripper Pistol against its forehead and shot it.

Everyone was backing up. The Walmsley's were forced to abandon their Heavy Bolter and unslung their M36's. The front rank, which Marsh Silas now found himself in, held them off with melee weapons. Over their shoulders the second rank fired their lasguns. But there was little ground to give and soon the two, short lines found themselves up against the Medicae's wall. Marsh buried his Nine-Seventy into an undead's skull and kicked it away, but was unable to free his tool. Drawing and activating the power sword, wreathed in blue energy, he swiped heads from their shoulders and ran others through so they could be shot. Yet, the wall of undead closed in.

Just as they were about to throw their full weight open them, heavy fire erupted from the right flank. A war cry went up, made up of hundreds of voices. As the enemy ranks thinned out, Marsh could see Captain Murga commanding three ranks of Guardsmen. The first were prone, the second crouched, and the third stood. Volleys of lasbolts cut away the horde like stalks of grass under a blade.

"Fire and advaaaance!" the company commander cried.

"Reform ranks right here!" Lieutenant Hyram shouted, reorganizing the two lines. "Fire and advance! For the Emperor!"

"For the Emperor!" they all roared. The two ranks marched forward; the first knelt and fired a volley. The second then proceeded between them, knelt, fired, and allowed the Guardsmen behind to take the lead. So they went on in tandem with Murga's men, steadily rolling back the undead. On either flank, Guardsmen from Second Company moved in tight groups, moving along communication trenches, on level ground, or proceeding onto the natural banks of the beach. Soon, they pushed the creatures almost back to the combat trench.

"Break ranks, concentrate your fire, advance!" came Murga's order. Everyone began to advance at a steady pace, firing from the hip or taking time to aim. Marsh proceeded forward with his power sword and Ripper pistol. A form appeared on his left and he was unsurprised to see it was Barlocke. The Inquisitor handed him several magazines for the sidearm and then continued shooting. When the advancing troops finally reached the combat trench, Murga waved his sword in the air. "Clear the trench, clear the trench!"

Some Guardsmen just stood at the edge and fired into. But Barlocke leaped into it, decapitating an undead and shooting through the skull of another. With vigor in his heart, Marsh jumped after him. He immediately put his back against Barlocke's, stabbed a walking corpse through it's abdomen, and shot it in the head with the pistol. He kicked it off, severed the head of another, and shot several more. When he raised his weapon to fire again, all he heard was a _click_.

"Switch!" he yelled. Turning left as Barlocke wheeled right, they traded spots. Reloading as he did, Marsh raised the Ripper Pistol and emptied half the magazine at some targets coming down the trench. One undead lunged at him; the platoon sergeant darted to the right, pivoted, and ran his blade through the monster's skull. The blade pierced the other end and became embedded in the wall of the trench. With enemies approaching, Marsh did not have the time to pull it out. He expended another magazine, reloaded, and then drew his trench knife. Slashing, swiping, driving the blade into their heads, he killed one after the other.

But then the Ripper Pistol ran out of ammunition and he had no more magazines. He whirled around towards Barlocke, who moved away by several meters. "I'm out!" Barlocke forced several of the undead back, turned, and looked around. A slain Guardsmen was at the bottom of the trench and his M36 was still in his hands. Hooking his foot under the weapon, the Inquisitor kicked it into his own hands, and then threw it to Marsh. The platoon sergeant turned around and shot at the small crowd shambling towards him. Before the charge pack ran out, there was a war cry from above. Monty Peck jumped in, driving his bayonet through one's head as he landed. Screaming, Walmsley's Major and Minor leaped in with their trench knives and began stabbing. Foley followed, expending the shells in his shotgun and then using it to bash enemies away.

Overhead, Guardsmen leaped over the trench. One of them was Hyram, who knelt and held his hand to Marsh. He grabbed it and climbed out of the trench. Marsh cast a fleeting glance at Barlocke, who was also climbing out as reinforcements flooded the combat trench. Then, he cast his gaze to the shore and charged ahead. Guardsmen were running full force onto the beach despite the horde still coming along. Captain Murga was at the front, waving his sword by his standard bearer.

"Form a line on me! Form a line here!"

Guardsmen from other companies were gathering on him. He looked brave, clad in his armour, lacking his helmet, and his blonde locks spilling across his visor. To see him delivering orders in a voice so booming that it overcame the carnage of combat was inspiring. When Marsh joined the line, he found himself by the company commander, Barlocke, Hyram, and Carstensen. "Fire at will!" Murga ordered. Lasbolts streaked across the beach, plasma bolts lit up the darkness, and grenades detonated across the shoreline.

"Look!" someone called. "The sea rises!"  
Slowly, the water was returning to the channel. First it came as a thin sheen of water across the sediment, then it began to rise higher up to the knees. But the undead came along, undeterred by the incredible fury of fire pouring from the Guardsmen or the water climbing around the legs.

The line held. Squad after squad, platoon by platoon, all three companies formed three great ranks of Guardsmen. It seemed as though the entire regiment was the beach. Earthshaker rounds continued to fall, throwing up water and sand. Several Chimeras rolled onto the beach and the multilasers began to cut down lines of the enemy. Master Sergeant Tindall appeared in the turret of the leading APC, firing the pintle-mounted Heavy Bolter and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Minutes felt like ages and the shooting just didn't stop. Men came around bearing fresh charge packs and grenades in buckets and upended helmets. Marsh would dig his hand in, snatch as many as he could, and continue shooting. Little by little, the sea returned, higher and higher. How long it took Marsh did not know; he was beside himself, looking at himself, performing every action automatically. Finally, the water overtook the greatest part of the horde and they slowly sank or were swept away, pathetically splashing.

"Close ranks and drive them into the sea!" Captain Murga screamed. "Advance and fire!"

All the Guardsmen threw up a terrific cry and began to make their way forward slowly. They fired as they did, killing those remaining on shores. Marching over the piles of dead, they cut down hundreds until the last stragglers were beaten to a pulp, smashed to pieces, or finished off by a shot to the head. When Captain Murga finally issued a halt order, the front rank was up to their knees in water.

Marsh Silas sucked for air underneath his gas mask. He felt Hyram's hand on his shoulder pauldron. The platoon leader was panting so heavily his entire upper body was heaving. After holding his hand there, he nodded and patted him several times. Behind him, Marsh saw Carstensen who lost her hat but retained her gas mask. With the lights of the camp outlining her and her orange locks passed across her mask, she offered a single nod. The platoon sergeant returned it.

Slightly ahead was Barlocke, who turned around and cocked his arm at an angle; his signature. Marsh repeated it, holding his left arm out and his fist up slightly. Captain Murga stepped in front of the regiment and held up his sword.

"For Cadia, for the Imperium, for the Emperor, the 1333rd Regiment stands!"

Everyone raised their fists and weapons and gave a great cheer that seemed to make Cadia rumble.

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	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

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On the beach, past the combat trench and the broken barbed wire entanglements, there was a massive, burning pile. A great stink of rotten, roasting flesh emanated from the fire. A green-black cloud rose from the putrid, orange flames. Along the surf, bodies bobbed in the foamy white breakers. Among them were disembodied heads, hands, arms, legs, and feet. Walking along the beach was a host of priests, burning incense and reciting purity incantations. Upon their staves, holy tomes were fastened to the heads. Pages flipped with the direction of the wind. Their robes were adorned with slips of parchment budded with wax. Prayers in High Gothic lined the slivers of parchment. Hordes of servitors trundled on and off the beach, depositing the corpses of the undead into the flames. Others collected the bodies rolling in the surf.

Along the perimeter, groups of Guardsmen were on watch. Many had doffed their flak armour and were standing to, their M36 lasguns pressed against their shoulders. Some stood alone and wore khaki sentry's cloaks. Such cloaks fell to a man's knees and covered the back entirely. With a tug of the cords, the front could be closed as well, keeping out wind, snow, and rain. Yet, the Guardsmen who stood on watch did not feel the cold or the wind. Their cloaks remained loose and were swept back and forth and side to side by the sea breeze. Despite their flowing attire, the men remained still. With the bright morning sun overhead, they looked like shadowy statues standing vigil.

Sitting on the sandbags of the combat trench, Marsh Silas sat with one leg outstretched and the other brought up his chest. He held his M36 against his knee, the buttstock planted firmly on the sandbags and the barrel pointed skyward. Beside him was his helmet, gas mask, and rucksack. As well, his Nine-Seventy entrenchment tool was resting on the top of the pack. The trench knife was embedded in the sandbags and beside it were his gloves. Dry blood was caked onto his flak armor, sleeves, and trousers. Even his boots were covered with intestinal muck. Dark bags hung under his eyes.

For a time, he stared at the growing pile of burning corpses. When the, 'all-clear!' rang out and the Guardsmen first removed their gas masks, Marsh Silas felt assaulted by the stink. Were he not so tired, he would have wretched. Even when he sat down, the smell was enough to make him wheeze and spit. But after sitting for so long, he was almost numb to it. Still, when the wind struck heavily or changed direction, it would amplify the stench and a sick feeling would roil in his belly.

He was beyond exhausted. The sheer terror of the night took its toll and finally caught up with him. When he sat down, it was with the expectation he was only going to rest long enough to finally catch his breath. Instead, he remained seated as dawn began to wash over Army's Meadow. A drink from his canteen did not revitalize him nor did a morsel of his ready-to-eat ration. It was a concentrated substance consisting of extracted nutrients from various foodstuffs, congealed into a tasteless bar which was nearly as hard as rockcrete. He nibbled on it for a while, managed to swallow a little, and then set it atop his rucksack. The tiny wax paper it was wrapped in flapped and rustled in the breeze. All he could do was stare out at the sea, witnessing the hundreds of corpses drifting along. Some came to rest on the sand and were swiftly collected by the servitors. Others were swept away.

Across the channel waters, Kasr Fortis loomed. Its skeletal spires and crumbling structures were beginning to look less like a ruin and more like a fortress. A distant fog bank descended and drifted between the towers. Shrouded in mist, it became a point of fear and wonder. All he could think about was how many more of the monsters were waiting in the streets and rubble of Fortis, waiting for the regiment to come over so they could finally devour them.

"I had my fears."

Marsh Silas heard Barlocke behind him. Turning slowly, he looked up at the Inquisitor. He was clad in his dark trench coat, splattered with blood and guts. The Inquisitor looked down at him and smiled. "Plague zombies, another vile product of the Warp and the Dark Gods. Our opponent, the object of my hunt, has made good on his promise to devote himself to their whims."

Barlocke jumped across the trench and pointed at Kasr Fortis. "He waits for us, Silvanus. But he believes his newfound fealty will preserve him. Only when we pierce his heart with our blades will he understand what happens when one turns their back on the Emperor."

"Woe to the unbeliever," Marsh muttered. The Inquisitor, who had fixated his gaze on the dead Kasr, turned back. He seemed bemused but he wore an interested smile. Slowly, he approached and sat down beside Marsh, looking at him the entire time.

"What ails you?"

"If you're so interested, why not dip into my head once more?" Marsh snapped. Afterwards, he bent forward and rested his head against the side of his M36. "I'm tired. I'm covered in filth. Men have been lost."

"Not any of ours. Bloody Platoon stands unharmed."

"Of course it does," Marsh said, unimpressed. "Why couldn't of ya pulled some kind of trick like you did at the cove? Broke their minds or whatever ya did? Ended such a night o' terror?"

"My power holds sway only on the minds of the living. While the dead may walk, they are nonetheless, _dead_." Barlocke looked at him and smiled gently. "My abilities are not the solution to every problem. Sometimes, it comes down to a matter of blood and bayonets. When I was a younger man, I always tried to devise a stratagem, a plan, some clever method which circumvented the carnage of battle. It took many years for me to accept that sometimes there simply is no other way."

Marsh Silas set his M36 down. He wasn't entirely listening; he was far too tired to. Once it lay flat beside him, he pulled both knees to his chest and then rolled up his sleeves. Despite the chill in the air, he folded both across his knees and rested his forehead against them. To feel the cold against anything other than his face sent a shiver up and down his spine. Such a sensation would have awakened a drowsy Guardsman. But Marsh Silas remained still and silent.

He heard Barlocke slip off his own gloves and set them aside. Then, he felt his hand on his pauldron, then on the back of his head. "A night of terror it was. I have seen many horrors in my time, although I have only encountered this particular one only once before. I assure you, were it not for the experience of your comrades and the advantageous nature of this base, there would have been slaughter."

"If you mean to comfort me, you're doin' a mighty awful job o' it," Marsh said into his arms.

"Why do you feel such shame for being afraid during a fight? Everyone is."

"I fear what's to come, more'an anythin' else," Marsh Silas said, finally looking up. "Look yonder, Barlocke, look yonder at Kasr Fortis. What waits for us? You say you have seen much of this life, so tell me, what lies there? I wish to know."

"The only way to find out is to go, Silvanus." His voice was not gentle this time. It was firm, as if he was reprimanding him. A veteran Guardsman was used to harsh language and receiving rebukes. But to hear it from Barlocke made Marsh Silas angry. It was all he could not to buck his hand from his head.

Undoubtedly, Barlocke sensed this. His hand remained, but his tone grew softer. "Are you not curious? You seemed to be when we first came here."

"The longer we stay, the more horrors we meet, and then I find myself growing ever fearful," Marsh said. "I've almost lost my life a number o' times already and again this night. I'll lay down my life for the Emperor and my comrades if I must, but I do not wish to do it fighting an Inquisitor's mission."

"You have been in great battles, met terrors, and experienced loss, have you not? What is it about this one you are so apprehensive of?"

Marsh Silas snapped his head up and glared at Barlocke, his violet eyes ablaze. When the Inquisitor did not remove his hand, the platoon sergeant shoved it away. He pointed at him, waving his finger right in the agent's face. All he did was smile, as if he was amused. It made Marsh even madder.

"Walking dead men were trying to rip us apart," Marsh hissed, so angry he was nearly talking through his clenched teeth. "I have seen dark machines and ugly tools of war our foes use, but this? _This!? _What else will they throw at us? I am afraid to know yet I find myself wanting to, if just to be prepared."

When he opened his mouth to continue, he found his energy gone. The fire that sparked in his heart petered out. Etched lines of range smoothed out and his violet eyes grew calm, resuming their normal violet brilliance. Sadly, he sighed and shook his head slowly. His gaze returned to the sea, where the count of bodies continued to dwindle. "I know so little, so little, and it terrifies and enrages me so." These final words were spoken with a softness so peculiar it startled even him. After ruminating on it for several moments, Marsh rested his head on his arms again.

Barlocke gazed at him, a sympathetic gaze to his eyes. One who did not know him may have mistaken it for lack of impact. But he reached over and mussed up Marsh's hair.

"You are a Guardsman. You are not supposed to know anything but faith, duty, and war."

"Tis true," Marsh sighed sadly. "I grow ever weary, realizing how little I know. Faith, duty, war, it has been enough. More an' enough, til' now. I feel small, unable to meet the tasks the Emperor has set us to."

"You could be more than a Guardsman, if you came with me when this is over."

"I wish not to speak of that," Marsh growled. He could tell the Inquisitor was slightly taken aback by his quick, aggravated response. For a few moments, he looked at the Guardsman almost as if he was concerned. Slowly, he scratched his chin and jaw, trying to think. After a moment, he shrugged.

"I think about our atop Kasr Sonnen's wall very often. You resolved to learn, to think outside yourself, to do what _you _thought was right. You decided to be more than what you are. I've seen that reflected as of late; out in the field, at the cove, with the Pathfinder, and Hyram. You have made progress and this gives me hope, not just for you, but for what you can _do _for the Imperium. What you need to understand, dear Silvanus, is that progress comes from experience, and experience stems from learning. That doesn't stop. You don't act a few times and then you've reached your full potential. Life doesn't work that way."

Barlocke got up, moved in front of Marsh Silas, and knelt. With an eager expression, he held his arms out to the side. "You desire to learn, to know what's out there. But you must understand what is _worth _knowing. I assure you, the machinations and vile creations of Chaos, are not worth knowing or understanding. It is why I never told you of these beasts or what resided in the citadel of that cavern. You do not need to know, and when you finally rest, you will realize you do not wish to know. Besides, what I wish to teach you, what I wish to show you, is the _Imperium_; for you to see it with your own eyes, not to merely know of it as an idea. Experience its richness and poorness, its culture and its denizens, meet its peoples and its subjects; that's worth knowing. That is worth learning." Barlocke motioned out at the water. "Once you see its splendor as well as its many faults, you will see something truly worth fighting for, to make it greater than it ever has been before. It is the holiest of tasks, a journey of its own. Your destiny is to take that journey, to walk that path."

For a time, Marsh Silas looked at his friend. His tone was not mystical, it was whimsical. He sounded excited just talking about it. So convicted, so resolute he was in his ideology, yet he was not arrogant or conceited. What he spoke he not only believed, he felt it deep within himself. Even Marsh Silas could feel it, as if it was warmth radiating from his body. Barlocke's dark brown eyes appeared golden brown when he spoke, as if the words were making his soul glow.

When he looked back at Marsh Silas, they resumed their original color with such startling rapidity, the platoon sergeant had to blink just to make sure. Barlocke smiled warmly at him before growing nearly bashful about his grandiose pose before him. Humbly, he removed himself to his seat beside the platoon sergeant. His amicable expression remained but Marsh did not return it. Instead, he looked out at the channel waters again. The ominous fog which clung to Kasr Fortis was steadily swept away by the wind. Above, the cloud barrier was broken up piece by piece. Rays of golden sunlight streamed through and caused the water to sparkle. Spray flew from breakers and appeared as thousands of glimmering gems.

Although he could not see him out of the corner of his eye, Marsh knew Barlocke's smile had faded. He could sense his disappointment at his lack of affect. When the platoon sergeant finally glanced at him, he could see Barlocke's eyes were searching. Not quite him, but around him, as if the words he sought were floating around the Guardsman. It almost saddened Marsh just as much as it surprised him to see the wonderfully eloquent Inquisitor lost for words.

Unable to bear it any longer for fear it was becoming cruel, Marsh turned where he sat to face him. He still kept his arms wrapped around his legs and brought them closer to his chest.

"Can I still...walk that path, like you say, while's bein' a Guardsman?"

"You can," Barlocke said after a few moments. "I assure you, it will be the more difficult one. It will be fraught with many dangers and trials, perhaps greater than the ones you would meet if you came with me."

"And how do you know this? Does that power o' your's let you see the future?"

Barlocke laughed kindly.

"Don't be daft. But I sense, I feel something within you, as you do in me."

Despite knowing full well the Inquisitor could see into his mind with ease, it nonetheless embarrassed Marsh Silas that he was aware of what he felt. At this, he frowned and looked away, angrily abashed. Barlocke's charming laughter aided in his recovery and he found the Inquisitor himself was looking down at the sand just before the sandbags. His bare forefinger aimlessly traced a circle in it, going round and round. When he finally finished, he drew the Gothic cross in its center.

Looking up, he swept the sand clinging to his fingernail away with his thumb. "I am drawn to you, Silvanus. I look at you, speak with you, sit beside you, and I feel something. An inexplicable, vestigial tie, as if I've known you all my life yet you've only just appeared to me."

While he spoke, his eyes drifted away and then he closed them. He spoke wistfully, as if he was recalling a memory. Marsh Silas felt his words weave and resonate through him, he clasped his hands together.

"I suppose it does feel that way a little," Marsh admitted, "although you're keener for these sorts o' matters. I'm very plain, and you're very interesting."

"I tend to find the plain _very _interesting," Barlocke said in a teasing tone. He opened his eyes and looked at the platoon sergeant with a satisfied, clever smile. With a groan of effort, as if he was an old man, the Inquisitor stood up. "I wish I could stay and speak with you further. But, I must away for now."

"Where is it that you go?" Marsh asked.

"At this moment?"

"Always. You seem to disappear for times and appear at random."

Barlocke grinned.

"Inquisitorial duties, young sergeant," Barlocke said before leaping across the combat trench.

Marsh Silas frowned and his lips flattened out. But a moment later, he hurriedly put on his helmet, placed his gas mask into his rucksack, collapsed his 9-70 entrenchment tool, and slid it through the look on his pack. He put the bundle on and just as quickly sheathed his trench knife and picked up his M36. After checking the energy of his charge pack and adjusting the bayonet, he approached the edge of the trench.

"Let me come with you."

Barlocke turned around and eyed him curiously.

"Are you not tired?"

"A Guardsman is never rested," Marsh retorted confidently. Barlocke snorted, hesitated, and then nodded his head forward. After jumping over the trench, Marsh Silas walked shoulder to shoulder with the Inquisitor. Together, they made their way through the camp.

Despite the solemn watchmen standing on the perimeter, the base was very busy. Upon Colonel Isaev's orders, inner fortifications were to be reinforced. What defenses were erected beforehand were now being rebuilt stronger than before. Sandbag barriers were replaced by framing for rockcrete. The rocky gray sludge was being funneled into the frames by servitors. Armor plating was being installed on what few bare walls on some of the installations. Drills sparked and drummed as Enginseers issued orders to their minions. Communication trenches were being extended further into the base, linking more of the facilities. Hardpoints for Heavy Weapons Squads and redoubts for line infantrymen were being added. Barbed wire entanglements lined the tops.

Chimera crews overhauled their war machines, revving the engines and cleaning the weapons. A Valkyrie touched down at the landing pad, offloading crates of cargo ranging from wargear to medical supplies. Staff officers walked briskly in and out of regimental command carrying data-slates.

"I'm concerned some of the undead may have ended up somewhere else along the coast. Not all could have assailed our bastion. Roaming monsters who can pass their filthy infection to others must be dealt with. An individual alone is a grave threat. But two of the Emperor's soldiers should be able to dispatch a few stragglers, wouldn't you agree?"

For a brief moment, Marsh Silas grew sickened and fearful at the thought of fighting them once more. But he held confidence in Barlocke; if the Inquisitor believed just they two could meet the foe and survive, he was game. As the thought crossed his mind, he felt energy return to his limbs and a spark to his heart. With a grin, he looked at Barlocke and nodded. Pleased to see such a reaction, Barlocke laughed heartily. "But how are we to get out to the coast, hm?"

"Could you not point at any vehicle you wanted and get it?" Marsh asked flatly, quirking an eyebrow as he did. He smirked a little. "Like in Kasr Sonnen."

"That's just what I was thinking," Barlocke said smugly. The two headed towards the motor pool. Many regiments on Cadia possessed a motorcycle section in case communications broke down or units were out of range. Mechanized dispatch riders were sent out on the bikes to quickly cover distance, reestablish communications, and deliver messages. In some cases, depending on the terrain or the availability of Sentinels, they were utilized as scouts.

Despite his status as an Inquisitor, Barlocke still found it necessary to confer with the quartermaster in charge of the motor pool to take one of the bikes out. The quartermaster, cowed by the mere presence of the agent, quickly agreed and registered one of the bikes. An Enginseer quickly made an inspection of the vehicle. Both wheels were filled with air, the tank was refueled, the engine was tested and cleared, and the Enginseer gave a nod as approval.

Just as the pair began wheeling it out of the motor pool, they found Lieutenant Hyram approaching.

"Sir," Marsh greeted. He stood at attention, clicked his heels together, and saluted. Hyram returned the gesture before he stopped walking.

"At ease. I've not seen you all morning. Are you well?"

"Well enough, sir. About to head out to scout with Inquisitor Barlocke," he responded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the Inquisitor. Hyram eyed the agent warily and then looked at Marsh, concerned.

"Will you not break your fast with us? Or rest? It has been a long night."

Marsh blinked.

"I had not thought o' that," he murmured, nearly saying it to himself. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was expressionless as he monitored the dials of the bike. When he looked back at the platoon leader, he did not know what to say.

Clearing his throat, he took a step towards him. Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Looking back, he found Barlocke standing right behind him. His grip was as tight as iron.

"I require Marsh's presence on this mission. I assure you, we shall return before nightfall. Your sergeant will be intact, I promise."

Hyram regarded Barlocke suspiciously. When his gaze shifted to Marsh Silas, his violet eyes became heavy with concern.

"Staff Sergeant, are you—"

"Yes, he's quite certain. Now, come along Silvanus, we have work to attend to."

Before Marsh SIlas could even speak, the Inquisitor turned him around and continued wheeling the bike out of the busy motor pool. Marsh looked over his shoulder at Hyram who remained fixated to where he stood. His shoulders seemed to sag and his head hung slightly. Finally, he turned around and began trundling back to their he turned back around, he found Barlocke standing on the left side of the bike. "Right, get on," he said casually.

Marsh looked between him and the bike.

"Ain't you drivin'?"

"I was the one who drove last time. It's your turn, my dear."

"I ain't certified with this here machine," Marsh said, pointing at.

"What a better time to learn, then!" Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. Grumbling, Marsh Silas slung his M36 over his shoulder and got on. Gripping the handles, he looked over the dials and the petals on either side. The Inquisitor walked in front of the bike, placed his hands on his hips, and began walking the platoon sergeant through the process of starting, driving, and breaking. On the right was a pedal and a grip on the handle; these were the brakes and were to be used in tandem. Barlocke taught him how gentle, controlled movements regarding the brakes were safer. The same went for the handle and pedal on the left side, controlling the power.

Then, the Inquisitor turned, pretended he was sitting on a bike, and began swaying in different directions. Although Marsh laughed and more than once threw his hands up, ready to dismiss the lesson, he followed along and mimicked the movements. It came easier to him than Hyram's spelling and writing lessons, and it was far more enjoyable despite how silly it must have looked to onlookers.

By the time Marsh Silas felt ready enough to take it out, an hour had passed and the morning sun was high in the sky. Barlocke mounted the rear seat of the bike, attached the safety belt to his webbing and put an arm around Marsh. "Sally forth, menial," Barlocke teased.

"I'll boot you from this here contraption if you utter another word o' that," Marsh said over his shoulder. He took a breath and looked at the handles.

"We're not moving yet, Silvanus," Barlocke said in a light, airy tune, almost as if he was singing.

"I'm aware o' that," Marsh grunted.

"Perhaps, you're a little nervous."

"I'm not."

"You know lying is a fool's errand when you speak with me. I do not even need my power to see through you."

"I always forget, don't I?" Marsh grumbled, looking over his shoulder tiredly. Taking one last breath, he started the engine, directed the front of the bike forward, and gently applied the gas. The bike accelerated a bit faster than he expected and he quickly braked; the shortstop caused the rear of the bike to rise slightly off the ground and the tires to squeal. Barlocke pretended to gasp and then laughed very hard. Marsh Silas just gritted his teeth and his wide eyes blinked while his cheeks became flustered.

After a few more hard shortstops, Marsh Silas managed to pass through the gate and maintained a steady speed down the length of Army's Meadow. At first, the front of the bike trembled in his grasp and he had to correct it several times. When they approached the bridge, Marsh Silas finally found his confidence and was able to take them across with relative ease. When they pulled onto the eastern coastal road, Marsh Silas increased the speed a little more and they began covering ground very quickly.

Once he required less focus, he found that he was enjoying himself. A small smile tugged at his lips as the salty air stung his face and the wind billowed by his helmeted head.

"Should I not speak to you while you drive?" Barlocke asked, raising his voice in order to be heard over the roar of the engine and the buffeting wind. Marsh just scoffed loudly. "I'd call you a natural but I fear we may go careening down the embankment and into the sea!"

"Mock me again an' I'll turn this machine around!"

"The Lieutenant was disappointed you did not join him," Barlocke said. Marsh Silas suddenly grew apprehensive and looked over his shoulder just enough to see the Inquisitor. Instead of keeping his arms around the platoon sergeant, he was leaning back. Both hands were behind him, gripping the rear of the bike. His head was tilted back and the wind whipped his dark locks. A coat of stubble lined his smooth, pale cheeks and his handsome smile seemed permanent.

Barlocke opened his eyes and met Marsh's gaze in that brief glance. Marsh looked back at the road.

"My place is among Bloody Platoon."

"And I want you all to myself," Barlocke said, leaning forward to say it beside Marsh's ear. Despite the whipping wind, it made Marsh shiver slightly and he did not respond. Barlocke sat back, tilted his head back once more, and closed his eyes.

"Is that all you ever aspired to be?"

"I am Cadian; a Shock Trooper is all I've ever desired."

"I'm _well _aware of that, Silvanus. But a sergeant? Not an officer?"

Marsh Silas did not respond immediately. He scanned the embankment and the road ahead, searching for any of the undead who may have wandered ashore when the tide fell away in the night. So far, he spotted none.

Knowing he could not use it as an excuse any longer, he sighed and shook his head.

"My mother and father were Shock Troopers both. She was a Sergeant Major, and my father rose from enlisted man to regimental commander in his time. Never gave it much thought beyond wanting to become a Shock Trooper; when I did, I figured I done right by myself. Though I admired'em both, none o' that spoke to me much. Down here, in the platoon, that's where the meat o' the Militarum is. I can't imagine bein' more than that."

"And your Kasrkin Honors?"

"Yet to earn it, but I hope to be a platoon sergeant then as well." For a time they were quiet, Barlocke sunning himself on the road and Marsh guiding the bike down the coastal road. It was pleasant but Marsh felt the conversation was not over.

"Your father and mother must be proud of you," Barlocke said.

"You'd be surprised. I think my dear mother woulda wanted some other life for me. And my papa, well, he didn't live long o' enough to see me put on the uniform."

"He was killed at the head of his regiment?"

"Somethin' like that," Marsh said, his voice thick.

For a brief time, they traveled in silence. But still, the conversation did not feel as though it met its end. Gingerly, he peeked over his shoulder. Barlocke was no longer sunbathing and was staring out at the sea. "And you? What were ya before you became an Inquisitor?"

It was only when he glanced back at a second he found Barlocke's dark eyes staring into the back of his head. While he did not appear stern, he was not smiling either.

"I was a criminal."

"You was some kind of thief?"

"More than that, dear Silvanus. I shall tell you more of my life, but not this day. Below us, along the shoreline."

Marsh looked left, carefully minding his grip on the handles so as to not turn the bike with the direction of his gaze. Staggering in knee-high surf below was a small pack of five shambling undead. All were filthy and wet, their scraggly hair glinting with moisture. Although they were together, they bumbled along aimlessly. One seemed to lead them, but it would only take a few random steps before coming to a jarring stop. Sometimes, they would bump into one another and one would fall. With great difficulty, it rose back to its feet. A moment later, Marsh gently squeezed the brake and the bike slowed to a stop.

Turning off the engine and kicking up the gear, the pair dismounted, donned their gas masks, and began descending the slope. When they were halfway down and less than a hundred meters away from the undead, Marsh Silas crouched, raised his M36, and aimed down the scope. Before his crosshairs settled on a target, Barlocke's hand obscured his vision. Looking up, the Inquisitor shook his head and then drew his blade.

"They can't get us from here," Marsh said, shrugging with his weapon in his right hand and his left hand empty.

"Test your bravery and your skill, Silvanus," Barlocke said and began tramping down the high embankment again. "Surely the man who charged in the midst of heretics with nothing but his blade is a man who can deal the killing blow to dumb, stumbling monsters?"

"Them heretics weren't tryin' ta tear my flesh from my bones," Marsh grumbled as he stood up.

Shouldering his weapon and drawing his power sword, he activated the cell and blue energy wreathed the blade. A moment later, Barlocke did the same. Eventually, the pair descended the slope and caught the attention of the undead. Slowly, they turned around and set their milky white eyes upon them.

Immediately, Marsh Silas felt his heart seize and his feet grew still. His legs trembled and he held the grip of his sword with both handles. Instinctively, he held it out in front of him as if it was both his weapon and a shield. Barlocke took several steps further before stopping and turning to face him.

"Find your courage, man, and face the foe."

Marsh Silas couldn't respond. All his confidence early fled from his soul and he wanted to run. Moaning, the undead raised their arms and began staggering towards them. Pus leaked from so many open sores. Saliva dripped through the holes in their cheeks and flowed from their open maws. Jagged, uneven rows of yellow and blackened teeth gnashed and chomped, as if there was already flesh between their shriveled, bloody lips. Their green, wart-covered tongues slipped and hung from their mouths.

Images of the previous night's battle flashed through Marsh's mind. The screams of wounded men torn apart by the monsters filled his ears. Despite his gas mask, he could still smell the stench of their rotting bodies. A gust of wind coat the ragged coat of the closest one and drew it aside; its stomach was open and devoid of most of its intestines. What little remained was green, yellow, or black. One fell out and landed on the pebbles with a sickening, wet _plop_.

"This was a fool's errand," Marsh murmured, his voice muffled by his gas mask. Barlocke stepped in front of him, obscuring the approaching enemies briefly.

"I ask not your trust of me, Silvanus, but I have trust in you." He raised his sword. "Now, we shall see if you have trust in yourself."

Marsh Silas was stunned to see the Inquisitor sheath his blade. Keeping his back turned to the undead approaching behind him, he then raised his arms. "If you do not act, I shall perish. I commend my life not just to the Emperor, but to you, my friend." He spoke without a hint of fear; it sounded like he perceived the situation as a mere game.

The moaning grew louder. Behind him, the undead loomed closer. Marsh felt his legs shaking and his hands trembling. His blade shook in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shuts, drew a stale breath within his gas mask, and cried out. Running forward, he charged at the first undead and decorated it with a single blow. Before the body dropped, he kicked back the next closest threat, stepped on its throat, and drove the blade through its forehead. The next tried to grab him but he shouldered it back, swung, and cleaved the top of its head off. As the beast fell, he stormed towards the next one and pierced it right through the center of its face. The plate collapsed as the blade slid through. When Marsh withdrew it, the bone was shattered and the skin flapped along the metal. A fifth came at him and he did the same, but this time the blade lodged in the skull. When the beast tumbled back, it took the sword with him. The sixth, final undead came at him, hissing and moaning by turns. Marsh drew his trench knife, gripped it tightly, and swung. The adamantium knuckles broke and unhinged its jaw, caused it to angle irregularly to the side and swing loosely. Teeth flew from its maw. Grabbing it by the throat, he turned it back around, turned his knife over, and drove the blade through the top of its head. The tongue went limp and flopped out.

Withdrawing the blade, he kicked the monster to the ground. Doubling over and dropping his knife, Marsh Silas held his knees and tried to catch his breath. The urge to vomit washed over him and it was difficult to hold it back. Eventually, he recovered, stood up, and looked back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was standing with his arms folded across his chest. He nodded curtly. "You are an able swordsman. With some more practice, you may one day earn Duelist Honors like your beloved Color Sergeant."

"I think those are many days away, Barlocke," Marsh said, finally able to speak. He then pointed at him angrily. "Don't ever do a thing like that to me again!"

"I make a promise and keep it, so I shan't make one to you now," Barlocke responded in a lighthearted turn. "Fear is something the likes of you or I will never be able to overcome entirely. It is something we must bear. To expect a man to have none is lunacy. But an officer can inspire, a Commissar can empower, and faith in the Emperor and yourself, can keep fear from becoming an obstacle."

Barlocke stepped forward, looked at the bodies, and then at Marsh Silas. "Just as you sit with Hyram and learn your letters, you and I have many lessons in the days ahead."

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	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

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For days after the attack on Army's Meadow, Marsh Silas accompanied Barlocke on his scouting runs. Prowling the coastal roads and trails on motorbikes, they hunted for the undead still roving across the shores. Sometimes, they went hours without finding any. A day's search could end up fruitless but they would return with the setting sun in good spirits all the same. Occasionally, they did not return and remained encamped beneath a cliff or deep in a crag with nothing but a pitched tent, a fire, and bedrolls. They spent such evenings discussing their previous missions together, going over the mannerisms, intricacies, quirks, and intimacies of Bloody Platoon, or swapping the occasional tale from an operation or battle from long ago. Often, they would take time on their expeditions to sit, eat rations, and admire the channel waters or the rolling landscape. It was beginning to snow more often and the land was becoming beautifully blanketed. Soon, entire ridge lines and hills were covered; roadside trenches and ditches became drifts. Sunlight would cause the packed snow on the surface to glimmer as if millions of minuscule gems were embedded in the banks.

Each time they went out, the platoon sergeant still found himself afraid of the creatures but was able to act with greater courage. To call their attacks on the undead slayings did some correct; they felt more like lessons. Barlocke would stand aside and allow Marsh Silas to dispatch them, all the way providing advice on his use of his power sword, stance, and moves. With each lesson, Marsh Silas felt himself becoming more at ease with his blade. It was surprising; when he first made sergeant, he carried a chainsword, a weapon he was well-versed with. When Overton left and gifted him his personal power sword, he soon became accustomed to it. He did not realize there was more to learn.

Side by side on the shore or atop a ridge, when they were certain no foes were around, they practice their swordsmanship with one another. Although it was not with the same climate as before, it was still a competition for Marsh Silas. Parrying, sidestepping, rotating, thrusting, slashing, blocking, he fought hard and learned a great deal. But he never won a single match. Barlocke did not hesitate to make light of his winning streak but it was not unkind or humiliating. Sweating despite their winter coats, they would have a cool drink and laugh about it. Then, they would enjoy a brief respite and continue their journey.

During their quiet moments, when the conversation shifted from staples of war and soldiering, Barlocke would regale Marsh Silas with tales of his travels. Most centered on injustices he encountered; Planetary Governors who siphoned funds or materials from their world's treasury for their own personal use, Astra Militarum regiments who intimidated civilians for use of their homes or pillaging of their food, unfair tithes which reaped a planet's wealth or production thus leaving the population nearly destitute, or even the reactionary nature of the Holy Inquisition resulting in needless deaths. Eloquent and passionate, he went on for hours sometimes as they sat by the fire, stating all he found wrong with the Imperium he loved so dearly. His dark eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of righting all these wrongs. So ardent in his beliefs, Barlocke seemed to tremble with excess energy and nervous excitement. He wanted to confront these malignant malcontents, bring justice unto them, empower the civilians of oppressed worlds, and help the Imperium prosper planet by planet.

When Marsh Silas listened to him, he did not just hear the Inquisitor's words, he felt them in his own heart. Barlocke had a certain way of speaking that dazzled and invigorated the platoon sergeant. Even if he was not able to feel it, seeing the glow in his eyes was enough proof. As he sat and gazed at the Inquisitor across the fire, sometimes he felt as though he would really join him when the operation concluded. The prospect intrigued him, pulled him, drew him closer. Then, he would feel remorse for his comrades who were going to be left behind and the entire affair would seem like an idle fantasy. All he could equate it to were the laggards during his long years of training; they would talk of dreams that would take them far away from Cadia and they would live a life without war. The Commissars sorted them out, eventually. Barlocke must have sensed it, for when Marsh Silas grew melancholy over it, he ceased his chatter and suggested sleep.

As they ventured further out, crossing some of their earlier battlegrounds by motorbike or on foot, they soon fell out of communications with the regiment. Eventually, they began bringing Drummer Boy who was all too happy to come with them. At first, both Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen were wary about allowing the platoon leader's Voxman to leave the camp, but Barlocke's word was final and they did not put up much resistance. Riding on the back of the Inquisitor's motorcycle, Drummer Boy enjoyed the speedy trips down the long, winding roads between the coast and the mountains Kasr Sonnen sat upon. Like Marsh Silas, he too overcame the obstacle of fighting the undead and soon began training with the sword. Side by side, the Voxman and the platoon sergeant practiced while Barlocke instructed them on every facet of swordsmanship. At first, Drummer Boy struggled and was often defeated by either Barlocke or Marsh Silas. But his spirit remained light and his jaunty smile was never fleeting. Around the campfire at nights, the trio ate, conversed, joked, and even sang. Both Guardsmen took great delight in teaching Barlocke many of their marching cadences. There was '_Hildred Hive_,' and '_Civil Cindi_,' '_Agri Amie_,' '_The Penal World Slammer_,''_The Cadians Are Marching_,' and countless more. Pooling their rations, collecting seaweed when the tide ran out, and drying them with rice dishes, they ate, laughed, and sang.

Marsh Silas never felt so well in all his life.

Once the fire was dampened and the three men found themselves abed, Marsh Silas would stay away after the others. Occasionally, he would venture out of the tent and sit with his sentry's cloak atop a rise in the land. Other times, if the weather permitted, he would move his bedroll by the embers of the fire and gaze up at the nighttime sky. Arms behind his head, pipe clenched between his lips, the night wind biting at his face and rifling his blonde locks, he looked at the gleaming stars. At these times, he imagined the Imperium as Barlocke told it. An empire of incredible magnitude, grandness, beauty, but also corruption and stagnation. It was the first time he ever really took the time to think about it beyond the world. All he knew was Cadia and throughout his life he was content with knowing just that. He was part of the bulwark, that very first bastion against the Eye of Terror. He was veiled in millennia of faith, honor, and glory; it sufficed until these nights. In him was the desire to see the rest of the Imperium, to do good as Barlocke wished to. But then he would hear a rustle, a slight noise; Drummer Boy would roll over in his bedroll or murmur a little in his sleep. Sometimes, he seemed distressed. At this, Marsh remembered what Honeycutt taught him and draped an extra blanket on the young man's legs. Then, the Voxman found rest. Marsh would then discover restlessness as he found himself once more conflicted.

So entranced and embedded in this life, the days passed much faster than he expected. A week passed, and then another, and another. Kasr Fortis, the rogue psyker, the regiment, all of it began to seem so distant. Barlocke made no mention of returning to base other than to collect supplies and refuel their motorbikes. It began to feel as though the nature of these days would continue for the rest of his life. But each time he returned, he saw Bloody Platoon's confused stares, Junior Commissar Carstensen's prying eyes, and Lieutenant Hyram's mournful gaze. Little was said between the platoon sergeant and the other members of his unit, other than an occasional report. Each time, he was eager to get back into the field and continue his journeys with Barlocke and Drummer Boy, but he found it more difficult to turn his back on his comrades.

Eventually, upon one of their returns, he found the camp's climate different from its usual quiet. Wargear stores were piling up in depots and troops from other companies were drilling on the beach. It was tense but not unfamiliar to Marsh Silas: he was a part of many operational buildups before. As he was collecting some extra magazines for his autopistol when he heard feet trudging up behind him. Turning around from the supply crate, he found Hyram and Carstensen standing before him.

"Sir! Ma'am!" He said, standing at attention and saluting. Both officers returned the gesture and all three stood at ease.

"I hope you're not forgetting your responsibilities as platoon sergeant," Carstensen said.

"No, ma'am, I haven't."

"You're hardly around. The men are wondering where you and Drummer Boy are. Do you not feel the air? We are to assault Kasr Fortis soon; you're supposed to be here training them, emboldening them, making them _ready_."

Marsh Silas smiled a little.

"I suppose you miss our lessons as well, sir."

"Do not speak to your commanding officer with that tone, Staff Sergeant!" Carstensen snapped. It was so sudden and loud Hyram reached over and clutched her wrist. She quickly shook him off and folded her arms across her chest. "If you are not _here_, you are not performing your responsibilities. Until you are reassigned or dead, you are not to forgo your duty as the platoon sergeant."

Marsh Silas had nearly recoiled but remained composed as best he could.

"We be hunting, ma'am, an' scouting too, searching for the undead who did not fall under our bayonets."

"How many days has it been since your last encounter, then?" she asked, her tone heated.

"Three, ma'am," Marsh Silas admitted, looking down his boots. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and he looked up. Hyram smiled at him kindly, his violet eyes twinkling somewhat.

"We are not here to lecture you, although I understand it might seem that way by the Junior Commissar's tone." Carstensen's green-blue gaze lit up and stared into the back of Hyram's head. "I assure you, she is concerned, just as I am. We are not sure it is wise for you to be under the Inquisitor's wing." Again, Carstensen's eyes seemed to be afire and she openly clenched her teeth. A few moments passed, her expression faded, and she once again turned her attention to the platoon sergeant.

At that, Marsh Silas frowned and roughly pushed Hyram's hand from his shoulder. Maintaining a glare, he looked between the pair for a few moments. The platoon leader, having never seen the aggravated expression in Marsh's eyes before, instinctually backed up until he was beside Carstensen again. Even though the platoon sergeant did not speak a word, the Lieutenant appeared hurt and his eyes fell slightly. To see him that way, his facial features dropping and his mouth opening slightly, his voice faltering, momentarily hardened Marsh's heart. For a moment, he thought he was once again looking at the spineless, inept officer who by some foolish order in Cadian High Command, ended up commanding a veteran platoon.

But his anger was fleeting and his heart soon softened. This was not the same man he saw cowering beside the Chimera during the ambush. Hyram still had a long way to go but Marsh Silas was very proud of him. Although he did not tell the Lieutenant as much, and as much as it frustrated him, the letter lessons were something he was becoming fond of. Many times, the lessons shifted to mere conversations and they spoke amicably about Bloody Platoon, missions, and previous assignments—much like he did with Barlocke.

"He wants me to come with him, after this," Marsh Silas blurted. Hyram blinked a little and held out his arms in exasperation.

"But, the men, what will they do without you? You said it yourself, you are the _platoon's _sergeant. They need you." For a few moments, his eyes seemed to search anxiously for something, and then he looked back up. "And I need you, too."

It was not definite, like an officer's order or reprimand, nor was it desperate like a pitiful cry for help. Rather, it was a kind of imploring, a hopeful wish, something spoken between friends. The words struck Marsh Silas and he found his own voice faltering. He felt his hands open and he felt the sudden urge to reach out, to take Hyram by the shoulder as he had, if not to affirm but at least acknowledge him.

"Yes, what will First Platoon, First Company, 1333rd Regiment do without their erstwhile non-commissioned officer?"

Marsh Silas froze. He heard footsteps coming around the other side of the supply depot. Hyram and Carstensen both stood at attention and saluted. Spinning around on his heel, he did the same. Standing before them was Ghent. The regimental Commissar stood erect, his hands folded behind his back, his chest out, and chin up. His crimson uniform was immaculate. In his high-peaked hat, he appeared two heads taller than Marsh Silas.

Ghent was imposing not just because of his rank but also his stature. While not robust of body like many of the Cadians, he was broad in the chest and it was easy to see he was strong. His face was gaunt; the contrast between his thin face and able body gave him a menacing quality.

Standing over Marsh Silas, he stared at him threateningly. "Are you not a Cadian? Your place is within a regiment, not beside an Inquisitor's side. You might consider yourself fortunate, but you know not of what an Acolyte is or what they do. All you will be is a lackey, a pawn, a plaything for the Holy Inquisition. Advancement comes not from your dedication, your honor, or even your faith; it comes from lapping an Inquisitor's boots. Is that what you are, Staff Sergeant? A bootlick?"

He stepped closer to Marsh Silas, nearly nose to nose. Ghent's eyes were dark but not like Barlocke's, although the latter's were characterized most often by mystique while the former's intimidated within seconds. "I know you, Marsh Silas." He pointed at Hyram and Carstensen. "These two might think you are able of body and stout of heart, but I know who you are. I remember the day you were promoted, how you hung your head in shame as others sergeants who have long sacrificed themselves, were passed over. I remember when Lieutenant Overton, so beloved was he, was promoted out of this regiment; his parting gift is the blade at your side. I saw you hold it across your knees and shake your head in dismay, for you knew you did not earn it."

Ghent stood at his full height once more. "You're a rotten Guardsman and a poor soldier. Your rank, your sword, these are gifts. But never have you been a pathetic bootlick. You look at the stripes on your sleeve and the sword on your belt, and you know those are gifts. Only the most conceited fool would think he earned either. If an Acolyte you are to become, you will be nothing more than a tool for that Inquisitor and what little respect you possess will be forfeit."

He turned around and began marching away. "I cannot interfere with the Holy Inquisition nor do I wish to. Whatever Inquisitor Barlocke decrees, we all shall obey. But if there is a choice for you to make, Staff Sergeant, choose one that will grant you purpose."

Without another word, Commissar Ghent marched off to regimental command. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen were left standing on the fringes of the supply depot, watching him. Eventually, they looked at one another again. Hyram's expression remained depressed and Carstensen appeared ever stern. Unsure of what to say or do, Marsh Silas simply looked at them in saddened silence.

"The final push is coming," Hyram finally said. "We are going to need you."

"Of course, sir, I will be there."

"I know you will be standing among us. What I mean is we need _you_, here," he tapped the side of his head, "and here." He put his hand over his heart. Then, he sighed. "Be well, Marsh Silas, and be safe. Look out for the Drummer Boy."

Hyram turned around, slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and trundled back towards the barracks. Carstensen lingered, her brow furrowed, the wind catching loose orange locks and casting them across her pale face. Eventually, she caught them and tucked them back over her ear. Although her gaze lingered, she began to turn away from him. At the last moment, her expression eased very slightly. She looked disappointed as she turned her head to follow in Hyram's tracks.

With a heavy heart and a burdened mind, Marsh Silas sadly watched them go. Both grew small as they traversed the slope leading to their barracks, their castle on the hill, their home. At the top was Bloody Platoon, a motley bunch in winter fatigues and sentry cloaks, some in armour, others not. With the sun behind them, their faces were obscured as shadows but the platoon sergeant felt his friends' eyes upon him.

"Time to go, Silvanus," chimed Barlocke from behind him. With great difficulty, he peeled his eyes away and returned to his bike.

The ride into the country seemed much longer this time. Marsh Silas hardly noticed the road as he guided his motorcycle down its winding trail. Behind him, Drummer Boy felt weightless. Ahead, Barlocke's black trench coat whipped and snapped in the wind. He was hunched over on his own bike, entirely focused on the drive.

In the fading daylight, the sea was set ablaze by the orange sun. Sea-bound winds were crisp and bit so ferociously at Marsh's lips he had to pull the chin of his black tactical hood over his mouth. Eventually, they passed from the coastal road to the country road. For a time, they followed it, weaving around heavier snowdrifts the sun had yet to melt. They passed a mobilized mechanized regiment; the convoy of Chimeras seemed to go on forever. Many of the troops were riding on top. As they passed, Marsh Silas and Drummer Boy waved and saluted accordingly. The Guardsmen were haggard and filthy; they were rotating in from a battle occurring far to the north and were coming to Kasr Sonnen to recuperate. Their gaunt expressions were tragic. Marsh Silas did not try to look at them for long.

Once they passed the convoy, Barlocke held out his arm and indicated he was pulling over. As he reduced speed and steered off the road, Marsh copied his movement. Just as he stopped the motorcycle, he came up beside Barlocke. The Inquisitor cut the engine and took off his goggles. "I think we should camp by the road this night, Silvanus. What's say you?"

"Fine," Marsh grunted, then nodded. "Seems like there's a bit o' a depression over yonder. Best we make it there."

"Very good. How are you faring, Drummer Boy?"

The Voxman was gripping the side of the motorcycle and shivering.

"I'd very like a rest, Inquisitor," he said through his chattering teeth. Barlocke just laughed. Dismounting their bikes, they rolled them to the depression which sat ten meters or so from the road. From the box shape, it looked like it was an aged fighting hole dug by Guardsman a no more than a decade ago. All that remained was the depressed center, not even a meter deep, and the embanked rim.

Parking their motorcycles beside it, Drummer Boy set to making the fire while Barlocke and Marsh Silas pitched their tent. Having done it so many times before, they finished very quickly. Once the fire was up, Drummer Boy took out his field mess kit which included a standing griddle that could be shifted on its pole over the fire. Testing it with the tip of his finger, he took out his rations and set some meat on it. Whatever meat it was this time none of them were sure; it looked more like a gelatinous pink mass made up of several different kinds of meat stuff. Although it did not look appetizing, the smell was enough to make Marsh Silas hungry.

He took out his own kit, set up his griddle on the opposite side of the fire and lowered it slightly, and filled a small cooking pot with water from his spare canteen. Then, he added rice and allowed it to cook. As he waited, he filled his pipe with tabac leafs, took a nearby twig, lit the end on the snapping flames, and then gingerly pressed it into the bowl. The leaves caught quickly, he breathed in, and flicked the twig into the fire. Drummer Boy took out a lho-stick pack, lit one, and began taking long drags on it. The Voxman looked surprised when Barlocke in turn pulled out a finely rolled cigar.

"By the Emperor, where did you find one o' those, Inquisitor?" Drummer Boy asked, his eyes wide as he marveled at it. Marsh Silas rolled his eyes.

"Ain't you figured it out? He's an Inquisitor, he can do just about anythin' and get anythin' he wants."

"Well, not everything," Barlocke admitted as he smelled the cigar. "I traded some chocolate with one of Isaev's staff officers. Fine tabac, finer than what you're smoking there, Silvanus." He eyed him with a curious, playful gaze. "Just where do you get yours, anyways?"

"Could jus' chalk it up to us Cadian folk getting better rations compared to your nameless line regiment, but that'd be a half-truth. Sure, sometimes we get a nice shipment o' tabac. Other times, it's how well you know your quartermaster. Master Sergeant Celsus, as it turns out, is a mighty good friend o' mine. We came up in the Youth Corps together so he gives me a decent cut for a good trade."

"I didn't think so esteemed Guardsman needed to barter and trade for supplies."

"Any wise Guardsman does, whether he's a Cadian or not," Marsh said as he laid out his bedroll. He sat down on it with a sigh and continued to puff on his pipe. First, he held it by the bowl and closed his eyes. When he released a breath of smoke, he opened his eyes, and slid his hand up so he held the neck by his middle and forefinger, while his ring and little finger remained raised.

Eventually, the rise finished cooking and Marsh took it from the griddle. Taking out his mess tin, he ladled some of the rice into it, then a few healthy scoops into Drummer Boy's and Barlocke's. When the meat was finished cooking, Drummer Boy halved each hunk, cut each one into strips, and then placed them on the rice. Finally, Barlocke took out some of the dried seaweed they saved, crushed it up, and sprinkled it over the dish. They started brewing recaf as they let their food cool to a tolerable temperature. Clinking their mess tins together they began to eat.

While Drummer Boy scarfed his down and Barlocke ate at a steady pace, Marsh Silas was slow. It tasted wonderful; the rice possessed a smokey quality, the meat was tender, and the crushed seaweed added an herbal element to the overall taste. Still, despite his growling stomach, he found he could not make himself eat.

"How is our dear Lieutenant Hyram faring?" Barlocke asked suddenly. Marsh Silas looked up slowly. Drummer Boy looked up immediately, rice clinging to his lips.

"He seems sad," Marsh said finally.

"I thought as much," Barlocke said.

"Looks like the buildup is startin' as well. Men be gettin' ready for the final push."

"I'm aware, it was upon my order. All that is left are the boats and they shall arrive by tomorrow morning."

Marsh Silas exchanged a quick glance with Drummer Boy before looking back at the Inquisitor.

"And then we shall attack Kasr Fortis? Root out this heresy for good?" Marsh asked. Barlocke scooped up a spoonful of rice, chewed, swallowed, and was just going for another when his gaze flitted up.

"Well, not right away."

"All you need to do is say the word and we shall go. Why should we be kept waitin'?"

Barlocke looked up entirely, his expression confused.

"We have a tactical advantage. The area around Fortis is secured. An attack can be conducted upon our leisure when we are ready."

"The men _are _ready."

"Are you?" Barlocke asked sharply. "Was it not weeks ago you said to me you were scared of what lay waiting in the dead Kasr?"

Marsh set his tray down roughly and pointed at him.

"Was it not you who kept draggin' me out here to steel my soul? Considered it fairly metaled."

"You still know fear."

"I'd be a fool for not being afraid."

"Have you not enjoyed our time out here?"

"We have _duties _to attend to."

"Perhaps I don't want to return to it!" Barlocke snapped. "You may want to go back to your drab life as a Guardsman, but if we were able to keep this up, I would do so gladly."

A terrible silence fell upon the trio. Marsh Silas and Barlocke stared at one another deeply, their brows furrowed, faces etched with anger, and lips pursed. Drummer Boy, holding his mess tin in one hand and his spoon in the other, looked between them a few times. Carefully, he set both down, took his cup of recaf, got up gingerly, and cleared his throat.

"Think I'll have a look o'round, check the perimeter," he excused himself. Taking up his M36, he trudged off into the darkness. When his footsteps faded, Barlocke's expression eased.

"Let's not quarrel, Silvanus, I am far too fond of you."

His voice was quiet and sad. It was difficult to stay angry and Marsh Silas found himself sighing. Setting his mess tin aside, he picked up his pipe once more and puffed on it for a time. When he finally took it from his lips, pale gray smoke wafted from his open mouth and nostrils. Inhaling again, he finally looked back at Barlocke.

"These days have been some o' the best of my life."

"Yet you want to cut this time short."

"But I can neglect my duty no longer."

For a time, the Inquisitor was silent but he began to nod.

"I suppose I thought we could prolong this time. Just you and I, and the Drummer Boy, I suppose. The day I requisitioned your regiment, I had no idea I would meet someone like you. Since that day, I have never felt so well in all my life. I've...never been happier. I doubt I ever shall be again. The end of our operation seemed so far away at the beginning and now that is nearly here, I admit I find myself wishing to avoid it. Not out of fear, not out of spite, but just to enjoy what little time there is between us. Even if you should come with me, the journey we shall take will be one of work and peril. For a time, however brief, I wanted to know a little peace."

"Tis Cadia," Marsh said, "there ain't no peace here."

"If I wanted peace, I should have gone to some far corner of the Imperium to a planet that does not know of our enemies. Maybe we can go together someday."

"Someday," Marsh said, smiling a little.

Barlocke smiled too, but it was sad and soon disappeared.

"You have the right of it. We are the Emperor's soldiers. Across the channel, a traitor waits for us. We must see him destroyed. Come morning, we shall away."

###

Upon their return to base, the first order of the day was issued by Barlocke and Colonel Isaev. All company commanders, executive officers, senior enlisted men, platoon leaders, and platoon sergeants were summoned to regimental command. Each headquarters element of the three companies gathered around the large hololithic projector in the center of the reinforced building. Along with Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen, Marsh Silas stood on Captain Murga's right. All of First Company's commissioned and senior non-commissioned officers were gathered on the left side of the project, Second Company across from them, and Third Company in between. Across from Third Company was Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, Inquisitor Barlocke, Captain Giles, and Lieutenant Eastoft. The latter tapped a code into her data-slate and the image on the projector changed, showing an overhead view of Kasr Fortis.

Once it was displayed, Barlocke stepped forward. "Gentlemen, the day has arrived. We shall attack Kasr Fortis this night. Enhance, if you please, Lieutenant."

The green imaging grew larger and Barlocke first pointed at the beach that was once the docks. "Utilizing the landing craft moored up the coast, we shall land here under cover of darkness. Tonight, the moon will be absent. The key element of this landing is stealth: the landing craft will cross the channel at the slowest of speeds to minimize their engine output. As well, the weather will be poor so the wind and waves should mask their engines. As well, Kasr Fortis is beset by hazardous materials; gas masks, rebreathers, and ample supplies of filters are necessary."

He began tracing a path from the first location. "Once we've seized the beachhead, we will patrol into the Kasr. It will be treacherous; this imaging does not account for the damage from the battle so long ago. Whatever obstacles we encounter will not slow us; we shall climb over it, go around, or underneath if need be. Our target is the factorum in the center of the Kasr."

A structure was highlighted in flashing red and maximized on the display. "It is the most likely location that the rogue psyker will make use of it. We shall eliminate this heretic and any daemons or heretics have accompanied him there. Whatever link he has to summon the undead must be severed as a secondary objective. A tertiary objective will be discovering what use he made of the souls taken from the mainland. I doubt there is redemption for them. I promise you, gentlemen, we will _not _be leaving until this heresy is cleansed."

Barlocke stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back. "Third Company will spearhead the assault to take the beachhead. Once all three companies have landed, First Company will take the lead. The landing craft will remain at the landing zone. For support, we have the Basilisks who could rain shellfire on the outskirts of the Kasr. Air support shall consist of Vulture gunships for gun-runs and Valkyries for evacuating wounded or dropping supplies if necessary. Colonel Isaev, your element shall remain at the beachhead to coordinate movement and provide security. I shall embed myself with Bloody Platoon."

Barlocke flashed the entire cadre of officers and sergeants a brilliant smile. "This shall be our final operation together. I hope to say my farewell to each and every one of you once we return to base. Are there any questions?"

Nobody raised their hands or spoke up. Marsh noticed Captain Giles step forward.

"Inquisitor, permission to accompany Bloody Platoon."

"Granted."

"And I too, Inquisitor," Lieutenant Eastoft said, joining her superior officer.

"Granted. Colonel Isaev, any words you wish to extend to the men?"

Isaev looked at the Inquisitor for a moment, then stepped forward and braced his hands against the hololithic projector's edge.

"We have lost men to these heretics and their foul monsters. Their presence is a threat not just to our base of operations but to Cadia as a whole. We fight to purge this heresy. We fight to defend Cadia. We fight for the Emperor!"

At this, he raised his fist into the air. All of the men did the same and gave a great cheer.

When they were dismissed, Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh hurried back to their barracks. They found the men of Bloody Platoon waiting eagerly for them at the top of the slope. Gathering them into a circle, they relayed the contents of the briefing to the men. The objectives and order of battle was laid out. Each Shock Trooper listened intently.

"First Squad will be on point with the Command Squad. I'll want one Heavy Bolter team with us well; Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, that's you."

"Yes, sir," the two brothers said.

"Sergeant Queshire, Third Squad will maintain the rearguard. Albert, Brownloe, your Heavy Bolter will be attached to Third Squad. Sergeant Stainthrope, keep the Special Weapons Squad between Second and Third. The remainder of the Heavy Weapons Squad will be with Second; I want our firepower to be flexible. This will be in close quarters, so each man is to carry an M36 with their bayonet attached. Make sure to tape the blade to the lug to prevent it from rattling."

Marsh Silas could not help smiling at this. Not once had he relayed this crucial piece of information to Lieutenant Hyram yet the junior officer came to it on his own. Although he tried not to show it, he was proud of him.

Hyram crouched down in the center of the men, who were growing excited about the operation. "We are to move quietly, as quickly as we can in such an environment, and we must wear our gas masks. Together, we have fought many times. We survived the ambush together, we survived our expedition against the heretics together, we survived the cross-country sweep together, and the battles of the cove _together_. If we work together as a brotherhood, we shall come out of this operation together. Each and everyone of you."

He looked at the men with a deep, serious expression. His violet eyes were afire. "By the Emperor, I promise you will come out of this alive. Now, set to it you gunmen, prepare yourselves."

In a flurry of scrambling limbs and barking sergeants, the Guardsmen were afoot and descended into the barracks. Each man found his kit and began to prepare. This time, there was no idle chatter or smart remarks. Each man was silent as he tended to his wargear, covering pieces of their uniform which could catch light and covering them with darkened adhesive tape. The same tape went around their bayonets after they slid onto the bayonet lug. As they donned their flak armour, they began tying and tying down anything on their webbing which could rattle or rustle. Anything that couldn't kill a heretic was left behind; piles of excess equipment began to pile up beside each Guardsman. Marsh Silas went to the communal chests to gather up all the grenades and spare charge packs Bloody Platoon carried. Stuffing his helmet full of both, he began making rounds throughout the barracks tunnels, allowing so many hands to reach in and collect all they needed. He made nearly a dozen trips. Extra grenades were clipped to men's webbing and charge packs filled extra cartridge pouches and bandoleer pockets. Men prayed over their weapons, lit incense, and doused cloths to clean the weapons with holy oils.

Everyone was focused and intense. Even Lieutenant Hyram took on a studious demeanor as he hunched over his data slate, going over the displays Lieutenant Eastoft sent to each officer. For a time, he would review and then switch back to his wargear. He scrubbed the inside of the barrel with a tiny brush, blew into the chamber, checked the magazine, and loaded the weapon. He applied a whetstone to his bayonet, the smooth grinding motion pleasant to the ears. Across from him, Junior Commissar Carstensen took off her crimson coat and donned an olive drab version that would not catch the light. As well, her cap was changed out for a similar color. Then, she checked her Bolt Pistol, aiming down the sights, cleaning the barrel, applying blessed oil to the exterior. When she finished, she murmured a prayer and kissed the weapon. Her eyes caught Marsh Silas's, and he offered a curt nod which she promptly reciprocated.

Men finished their preparations and began filtering to the surface. Marsh Silas was outside Hyram's comb when he emerged with Carstensen. "I am ready. I shall see to the men."

"Yes, sir," Marsh Silas responded. Just as Hyram began to walk away, he took a step after him. "Sir?" Hyram turned. Marsh was about to speak, but instead he smiled and saluted. Hyram did the very same before departing.

Ducking into Hyram's comb, he sat down in front of the platoon leader's cot and began to attend his own gear in private by lamp light. Like the others, he filled his pouches, shortened the primers on his grenades, sharpened his bayonet, trench knife, and his power sword, and cleaned his weapons. After patting himself down several times over, he felt assured he was ready. He checked his watch and saw time was passing quickly.

Just as he was about to stand up, Barlocke entered. He closed the curtain behind him. Marsh remained seated on the floor. Instead of taking a seat at the table, the Inquisitor sat down beside him.

"Now, the waiting begins."

"Of course," Marsh said.

"I came to ask if you made your decision yet. To come with me, once this is all over."

"I have not," Marsh Silas admitted after a moment's hesitation. "But I still think on it."

"That is all I ask at this time," Barlocke sighed. He smiled amiably.

"Do you think we shall do good if we go out into that wide, grand Imperium together?"

"I would be surprised if we did evil."

"Sometimes, I wonder why it was me. You think me special, think me different, that I have a destiny. It fills up my heart, but I think myself unmatched to such words. Why?"

For a time, Barlocke looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"I want to do good for the Imperium and its people. But I have known great loss and suffering for both. I love our people, but..." he searched for the words, before sighing and facing him once more. "...you're the only one I like."

Marsh Silas was unsure of what to say. All he could do was light his pipe and begin smoking. He allowed Barlocke to take a puff on it and the Inquisitor handed it back. Smoke began to fill the bunk room. "Tell me what you've seen, Silvanus."

"I..." Marsh struggled to speak. It was so simple a request yet he felt daunted by it. Barlocke remained silent as the platoon sergeant's mouth hung open ever slightly. "...I, I've seen...I've seen machines both great and vile at war. Seen entire regiments disappear in fields of fire. I have seen the dead walk and daemons rise. I have stood beside the greatest Guardsmen in trenches and by breaches, see the standard wave above enemy fortifications. I have seen victory and defeat. I've seen...seen my closest friend perish at the hands of a Commissar and another sent o'way. And I've...I've...I've seen mine-own father killed and my mother stripped of her rights to nobility. Seen the barrows of a Hive and the spires of a Kasr. I have seen war, Barlocke."

The gravity, the weight of the battle to come, dawned on him. Marsh Silas felt small, insignificant, and childlike. Taking a quivering breath as his pipe trembled in his hand, he looked at Barlocke. "And you, what have you seen?"

Barlocke smiled at him gently.

"I shall not tell you of all I've seen, but I will tell you of my life, Silvanus."

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**Words: **6,703

**Pages (Google Docs): **17

**Original Font:** PT Serif

**Original Font Size: **11

**Original Line Spacing:** 1.5

**Author's Note: **Cover art is provided by friend and fellow DeviantArt user Fail4Fun.


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